ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


e  to  be 

oned  with.      He  knows  , ^e  can 

jvmparheric  without  being  sentimental.  He  is  afraid  neither  of 
sure  nor  pain — nor  of  seeming  to  fear  the  conventionalities.  He 
wsthat  man's  fiercest  battles  seldom  are  fought  to  the  accompaniment 
mnon.  He  knows  that  loneliness  is  one  of  the  hardest,  one  of  the 
t  universal  of  humanity's  tests  and  sorrows." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

definite  and  notable  addition  to  English  literature  is  made  when 
-w  novel  by  Hugh  Walpole  is  published." —Philadelphia  North 
rrican. 

r.  Walpole  is  a  realist  with  a  wide  angle  vision.    He  sees  life  steadily 
sees  it  whole — yet  keeps  his  temper  and  his  hopes."  —  Lewellyn 


A  NOVEL  of  rich  and  delicate  detail  of  many  lives, 
from  the  all-powerful  churchman  who  is  the 
central  portrait  to  the  verger's  smallest  child. 
Even  as  the  cathedral  rises,  symmetrical  and  massive, 
out  of  the  infinite  detail  of  each  scroll  and  carving, 
so  Mr.  Walpole's  study  of  power  and  human  destiny 
springs  up  in  strength  and  beauty  from  the  interlacing 
lives  of  the  people  of  his  novel. 

A  good  man  spoiled  by  power;  an  unscrupulous  man 
who  covets  authority;  a  wife  and  a  son  through  whom 
one  may  strike  at  the  good  man;  a  daughter  who  is 
her  father's  staunchest  ally  —  these  are  the  central 
figures  of  a  story  which  reaches  its  height  in  a  week 
of  carnival,  with  its  delirium  of  outdoor  mood. 

In  no  other  novel  has  Hugh  Walpole  ^o  successfully 
presented  a  world  in  little  as  in  this  sharply  dramatic 
tale  of  the  conflict  of  love  and  power. 


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THE  CATHEDRAL 
HUGH  WALPOLE 


Books  bij  HUGH  WALPOLE 
Novels 

THE  WOODEN   HORSE 

THE  GODS  AND  MR.  PERRIN 

THE    GREEN    MIRROR 

THE  DARK   FOREST 

THE    SECRET   CITY 

THE    CAPTIVES 

THE    CATHEDRAL 

Romances 

MARADICK   AT  FORTY 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

FORTITUDE 

THE   DUCHESS   OF  WREXE 

THE  YOUNG  ENCHANTED 

Short  Stories 

THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

Books  about  Children 

THE    GOLDEN    SCARECROW 

JEREMY 

JEREMY  AND   HAMLET 

(In  Preparation) 
Belle  s-Lettres 

JOSEPH   CONRAD :  A   CRITICAL  STUDY 


THE    CATHEDRAL 

A  Novel 


BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 

Author  of  "The  Young  Enchanted,"  "The  CaptiTCB," 

"Jeremy,"  "The  Secret  City,"  "The 

Green  Mirror,"  etc. 


NEW  ^ISIr    YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BT  GEORGE  H.   UORAN   COMPANY 


THE    CATHEDRAL.    I 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


College 
Libi'ary 


TO 

JESSIE  AND  JOSEPH  CONRAD 

WITH    MUCH    liOVB 


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Sonors  sans  dureU. 


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CONTENTS 

BOOK  I:  PRELUDE 

CBAFTB  tkOB 

I     Brandons 13 

II     Bonders 29 

III     One  of  Joan's  Days 40 

IV     The  Impertinent  Elephant 62 

V  Mrs.  Brandon  Goes  Out  to  Tea 82 

VI     Seatown  Mist  and  Cathedral  Dust     ....  94 

VII     Ronder's  Day 114 

VIII     Son — Father 134 

BOOK  II:     THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY 

I     Five  O'Clock — The  Green  Cloud       .      .      .      .  153 

II     Souls  on  Sunday 159 

III     The  May-Day  Prologue 172 

IV     The  Genial  Heart 186 

V  Falk  by  the  River 209 

VI     Falk's  Flight 230 

VII     Brandon  Puts  on  His  Armour 250 

VIII     The  Wind  Flies  over  the  House 269 

IX     The  Quarrel 277 

ix 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  III:     THE  JUBILEE 

CHATTER 

I  Junk  17,  Thursday:  Anticipation 

II  Friday,  June  18:  Shadow  Meets  Shadow 

III  Saturday,  June  19:  The  Ball  . 

IV  Sunday,  June  20:  In  the  Bedroom 
V  Tuesday,  June  22:  I.  The  Cathedral 

VI     Tuesday,  Junk  22:  II.  The  Fair     . 
VII     Tuesday,  June  22:  III.  Torchlight 


PAGK 

301 
325 
310 
358 
37'2 
38i 
398 


BOOK  IV:     THE  LAST  STAND 

I     In  Ronder's  House:  Bonder,  Wistons  .      .  409 

II     Two  in  the  House 421 

III  Prelude  to  Battle 436 

IV  The  Last  Tournament 447 


BOOK    I 
PRELUDE 


"Thou  shalt  have  none  other  gods  but  Me. 


THE   CATHEDRAL 


CHAPTER  I 

BEANDONS 

ADAM  BRAOT)0]Sr  was  bom  at  Little  Empton  in  Kent 
in  1839.  He  was  educated  at  the  King's  School, 
Canterbury,  and  at  Pembroke  College,  Cambridge.  Or- 
dained in  1863,  he  was  first  curate  at  St.  Martin's,  Ports- 
mouth, then  Chaplain  to  the  Bishop  of  Worcester;  in  the 
year  1875  he  accepted  the  living  of  Pomfret  in  Wiltshire  and 
was  there  for  twelve  years.  It  was  in  1887  that  he  came 
to  our  town ;  he  was  first  Canon  and  afterwards  Archdeacon. 
Ten  years  later  he  had,  by  personal  influence  and  strength  of 
character,  acquired  so  striking  a  position  amongst  us  that 
he  was  often  alluded  to  as  "the  King  of  Polchester."  His 
power  was  the  greater  because  both  our  Bishop  (Bishop 
Purcell)  and  our  Dean  (Dean  Sampson)  during  that  period 
were  men  of  retiring  habits  of  life.  A  better  man,  a  greater 
saint  than  Bishop  Purcell  has  never  lived,  but  in  1896  he 
was  eighty-six  years  of  age  and  preferred  study  and  the 
sanctity  of  his  wonderful  library  at  Carpledon  to  the  publicity 
and  turmoil  of  a  public  career;  Dean  Sampson,  gentle  and 
amiable  as  he  was,  was  not  intended  by  nature  for  a  moulder 
of  men.  He  was,  however,  one  of  the  best  botanists  in  the 
County  and  his  little  book  on  "Glebshire  Ferns"  is,  I  be- 
lieve, an  authority  in  its  own  line. 

Archdeacon   Brandon  was,  of  course,  greatly  helped  by 
his  magnificent  physical  presence.     "Magnificent"  is  not,  I 

13 


14  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

think,  too  strong  a  word.  Six  feet  two  or  three  in  height, 
he  had  the  figure  of  an  athlete,  light  blue  eyes,  and  his  hair 
was  still,  when  he  was  fifty-eight  years  of  age,  thick  and 
fair  and  curly  like  that  of  a  boy.  He  looked,  indeed,  mar- 
vellously young,  and  his  energy  and  grace  of  movement  might 
indeed  have  belonged  to  a  youth  still  in  his  teens.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  imagine  how  startling  an  effect  his  first  appear- 
ance in  Polchester  created.  Many  of  the  Polchester  ladies 
thought  that  he  was  like  "a  Greek  God"  (the  fact  that  they 
had  never  seen  one  gave  them  the  greater  confidence),  and 
Miss  Dobell,  who  was  the  best  read  of  all  the  ladies  in  our 
town,  called  him  "the  Viking."  This  stuck  to  him,  being 
an  easy  and  emphatic  word  and  pleasantly  cultured. 

Indeed,  had  Brandon  come  to  Polchester  as  a  single  man 
there  might  have  been  many  broken  hearts;  however,  in 
1875  he  had  married  Amy  Broughton,  then  a  young  girl  of 
twenty.  He  had  by  her  two  children,  a  boy,  Falcon,  now 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  a  girl,  Joan,  just  eighteen. 
Brandon  therefore  was  safe  from  tlie  feminine  Polchester 
world;  our  town  is  famous  among  Cathedral  cities  for  the 
morality  of  its  upper  classes. 

It  would  not  have  been  possible  during  all  these  years  for 
Brandon  to  have  remained  unconscious  of  the  remarkable 
splendour  of  his  good  looks.  He  was  very  well  aware  of  it, 
but  any  one  who  called  him  conceited  (and  every  one  has  his 
enemies)  did  him  a  grave  injustice.  Ho  was  not  conceited 
at  all — he  simply  regarded  himself  as  a  completely  excep- 
tional person.  Ho  was  not  elated  that  ho  was  exceptional, 
ho  did  not  flatter  himself  because  it  was  so;  God  had  seen 
fit  (in  a  moment  of  boredom,  perhaps,  at  the  number  of 
insignificant  and  misshaped  human  beings  He  was  forced 
to  create)  to  fling  into  the  world,  for  once,  a  truly  Fine 
Specimen,  Fine  in  Body,  Fine  in  Soul,  Fine  in  Intellect. 
Brandon  had  none  of  the  sublime  ^roism  of  Sir  Willoughby 
Patteme — he  thought  of  others  and  was  kindly  and  often 
unaelfiah — but  he  did,  like  Sir  Willoughby,  believe  himself 


ONE 


PRELUDE  15 


,  to  be  of  quite  another  day  from  the  rest  of  mankind.  He 
I  was  intended  to  rule,  God  had  put  him  into  the  world  for 
\  that  purpose,  and  rule  he  would — to  the  glory  of  God  and 
a  little,  if  it  must  be  so,  to  the  glory  of  himself.  He  was 
a  very  simple  person,  as  indeed  were  most  of  the  men 
and  women  in  the  Polchester  of  1897.  He  did  not  analyse 
motives,  whether  his  own  or  any  one  else's;  he  was  aware 
that  he  had  "weaknesses"  (his  ungovernable  temper  was  a 
source  of  real  distress  to  him  at  times — at  other  times  he 
felt  that  it  had  its  uses).  On  the  whole,  however,  he  was 
satisfied  with  himself,  his  appearance,  his  abilities,  his  wife, 
his  family,  and,  above  all,  his  position  in  Polchester.  This 
last  was  very  splendid. 

His  position  in  the  Cathedral,  in  the  Precincts,  in  the 
Chapter,  in  the  Town,  was  unshakable. 

He  trusted  in  God,  of  course,  but,  like  a  wise  man,  he 
\  trusted  also  in  himself. 

It  happened  that  on  a  certain  wild  and  stormy  afternoon 
in  October  1896  Brandon  was  filled  with  a  great  exultation. 
As  he  stood,  for  a  moment,  at  the  door  of  his  house  in  the 
Precincts  before  crossing  the  Green  to  the  Cathedral,  he 
looked  up  at  the  sky  obscured  with  flying  wrack  of  cloud,  felt 
the  rain  drive  across  his  face,  heard  the  elms  in  the  neigh- 
bouring garden  creaking  and  groaning,  saw  the  lights  of  the 
town  far  beneath  the  low  wall  that  bounded  the  Precincts 
sway  and  blink  in  the  storm,  his  heart  beat  with  such  pride 
and  happiness  that  it  threatened  to  burst  the  body  that  con- 
tained it.  There  had  not  been,  perhaps,  that  day  anything 
especially  magnificent  to  elate  him;  he  had  won,  at  the 
Chapter  Meeting  that  morning,  a  cheap  and  easy  victory  over 
Canon  Foster,  the  only  Canon  in  Polchester  who  still  showed, 
at  times,  a  wretched  pugnacious  resistance  to  his  opinion; 
he  had  met  Mrs.  Combermere  afterwards  in  the  High  Street 
and,  on  the  strength  of  his  Chapter  victory,  had  dealt  with 
her  haughtily ;  he  had  received  an  especially  kind  note  from 


16  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Lady  St  Leath  asking  him  to  dinner  early  next  month ;  but 
all  these  events  were  of  too  usual  a  nature  to  excite  his 
triumph. 

No,  there  had  descended  upon  him  this  afternoon  that 
especial  ecstasy  that  is  surrendered  once  and  again  by  the 
gods  to  men  to  lead  them,  maybe,  into  some  especial  blunder 
or  to  sharpen,  for  Olympian  humour,  the  contrast  of  some 
swiftly  approaching  anguish. 

Brandon  stood  for  a  moment,  his  head  raised,  his  chest 
out,  his  soul  in  flight,  feeling  the  sharp  sting  of  the  raindrops 
upon  his  cheek;  then,  with  a  little  breath  of  pleasure  and 
happiness,  he  crossed  the  Green  to  the  little  dark  door  of 
Saint  Margaret's  Chapel. 

The  Cathedral  hung  over  him,  as  he  stood,  feeling  in  his 
pocket  for  his  key,  a  huge  black  shadow,  vast  indeed  to-day, 
as  it  mingled  with  the  grey  sky  and  seemed  to  be  taking  part 
in  the  directing  of  the  wildness  of  the  storm.  Two  little 
gargoyles,  perched  on  the  porch  of  Saint  Margaret's  door, 
leered  do^vn  upon  the  Archdeacon.  The  rain  trickled  down 
over  their  naked  twisted  bodies,  running  in  rivulets  behind 
their  outstanding  ears,  lodging  for  a  moment  on  the  projec- 
tion of  their  hideous  nether  lips.  They  grinned  down  upon 
the  Archdeacon,  amused  that  he  should  have  difficulty,  there 
in  the  rain,  in  finding  his  key.  "Pah !"  they  heard  him 
mutter,  and  then,  perhaps,  something  worse.  The  key  was 
found,  and  he  had  then  to  bend  his  great  height  to  squeeze 
through  the  little  door.  Once  inside,  he  was  at  the  corner 
of  the  Saint  Margaret  Chapel  and  could  see,  in  the  faint 
half-light,  the  rosy  colours  of  the  beautiful  Saint  Margaret 
window  that  glimmered  ever  so  dimly  upon  the  rows  of  cane- 
bottomed  chairs,  the  dingy  red  hassocks,  and  tlie  brass  tablets 
upon  the  grey  stone  walls.  He  walked  through,  picking  his 
way  carefully  in  the  dusk,  saw  for  an  instant  the  high,  vast 
expanse  of  the  nave  with  its  few  twinkling  lights  that  blew 
in  the  windy  air,  then  turned  to  the  loft  into  the  Vestry, 
closing  the  door  behind  hinx.    Even  as  he  closed  the  door  he 


ONE  PKELUDE  17 

could  hear  high,  high  up  above  him  the  ringing  of  the 
bell  for  Evensong. 

In  the  Vestry  he  found  Canon  Dobell  and  Canon  Rogers. 
Dobell,  the  Minor  Canon  who  was  singing  the  service,  was  a 
short,  round,  chubby  clergyman,  thirty-eight  years  of  age, 
,  whose  great  aim  in  life  was  to  have  an  easy  time  and  agree 
\  with  every  one.  He  lived  with  a  sister  in  a  little  house  in 
the  Precincts  and  gave  excellent  dinners.  Very  different  was 
Canon  Rogers,  a  thin  aesthetic  man  with  black  bushy  eye- 
brows, a  slight  stoop  and  thin  brown  hair.  He  took  life  with 
grim  seriousness.  He  was  a  stupid  man  but  obstinate,  dog- 
matic, and  given  to  the  condemnation  of  his  fellow-men. 
He  hated  innovations  as  strongly  as  the  Archdeacon  himself, 
but  with  his  clinging  to  old  forms  and  rituals  there  went  no 
self-exaltation.  He  was  a  cold-blooded  man,  although  his 
obstinacy  seemed  sometimes  to  point  to  a  fiery  fanaticism. 
But  he  was  not  a  fanatic  any  more  than  a  mule  is  one  when 
he  plants  his  feet  four-square  and  refuses  to  go  forward.  No 
compliments  nor  threats  could  move  him;  he  would  have 
lived,  had  he  had  a  spark  of  asceticism,  a  hermit  far  from 
the  haunts  of  men,  but  even  that  withdrawal  would  have 
implied  devotion.  He  was  devoted  to  no  one,  to  no  cause, 
to  no  religion,  to  no  ambition.  He  spent  his  days  in  main- 
taining things  as  they  were,  not  because  he  loved  them, 
simply  because  he  was  obstinate.  Brandon  quite  frankly 
hated  him. 

In  the  farther  room  the  choir-boys  were  standing  in  their 
surplices,  whispering  and  giggling.  The  sound  of  the  bell 
was  suddenly  emphatic.  Canon  Rogers  stood,  his  hands 
folded  motionless,  gazing  in  front  of  him.  Dobell,  smiling 
so  that  a  dimple  appeared  in  each  cheek,  said  in  his  chuckling 
whisper  to  Brandon: 

"Render  comes  to-day,  doesn't  he?" 

"Render  ?"  Brandon  repeated,  coming  abruptly  out  of  his 
secret  exultation. 

"Yes  .  .  .  Hart-Smith's  successor." 


18  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Oh,  yee — I  believe  he  does.  ..." 

Cobbett,  the  Verger,  wdth  his  gold  staff,  appeared  in  tho 
Vestry  door.  A  tall  handsome  man,  he  had  been  in  the 
service  of  the  Cathedral  as  man  and  boy  for  fifty  years. 
He  had  his  private  ambitions,  the  main  one  being  that  old 
Lawrence,  the  head  Verger,  in  his  opinion  a  silly  old  fool, 
should  die  and  permit  his  own  legitimate  succession.  Another 
ambition  was  that  he  should  save  enough  money  to  buy 
another  three  cottages  down  in  Seatown.  He  owned  already 
six  there.  But  no  one  observing  his  magnificent  impassivity 
(he  was  famous  for  this  throughout  ecclesiastical  Glebeshire) 
would  have  supposed  that  he  had  any  thought  other  than  those 
connected  with  ceremony.  As  he  appeared  the  organ  began 
its  voluntary,  the  music  stealing  through  the  thick  grey  walls, 
creeping  past  the  stout  grey  pillars  that  had  listened,  with 
so  impervious  an  immobility,  to  an  endless  succession  of 
voluntaries.  The  Archdeacon  prayed,  the  choir  responded 
with  a  long  Amen,  and  the  procession  filed  out,  the  boys  with 
faces  pious  and  wistful,  the  choir-men  moving  with  non- 
chalance, their  restless  eyes  wandering  over  the  scene  so  ab- 
solutely known  to  them.  Then  came  Rogers  like  a  martyr; 
Dobell  gaily  as  though  he  were  enjoying  some  little  joke  of 
his  own ;  last  of  all,  Brandon,  superb  in  carriage,  in  dignity, 
in  his  magnificent  recognition  of  the  value  of  ceremony. 

Because  to-day  was  simply  an  ordinary  afternoon  with  an 
ordinary  Anthem  and  an  ordinary  service  (Martin  in  F) 
the  congregation  was  small,  the  gates  of  the  great  screen 
closed  with  a  clang  behind  the  choir,  and  the  nave,  purple 
grey  under  the  soft  light  of  the  candle-lit  choir,  was  shut 
out  into  twilight.  In  the  high  carved  seats  behind  and 
beyond  tho  choir  the  congr^ation  was  sitting;  Miss  Dobell, 
who  never  missed  a  service  that  her  brother  was  singing, 
with  her  pinched  white  face  and  funny  old-fashioned  bonnet, 
lost  between  the  huge  arms  of  her  seat;  Mrs.  Combermere, 
with  a  friend,  stiff  and  majestic;  Mrs.  Cole  and  her  sister- 
in-law,  Amy  Cole;  a  few  tourists;  a  man  or  two;  Major 


ONE  PRELUDE  19 

Drake,  who  liked  to  join  in  tlie  psalms  with  his  deep  bass; 
and  little  Mr.  Thompson,  one  of  the  masters  at  the  School 
who  loved  musio  and  always  came  to  Evensong  when  he 
could. 

There  they  were  then,  and  the  Archdeacon,  looking  at 
them  from  his  stall,  could  not  but  feel  that  they  were 
rather  a  poor  lot.  IsTot  that  he  exactly  despised  them;  he 
felt  kindly  towards  them  and  would  have  done  no  single 
one  of  them  an  injury,  but  he  knew  them  all  so  well — Mrs. 
Combermere,  Miss  Dobell,  Mrs.  Cole,  Drake,  Thompson. 
They  were  shadows  before  him.  If  he  looked  hard  at  them 
they  seemed  to  disappear.  .  .  . 

The  exultation  that  he  had  felt  as  he  stood  outside  his 
house-door  increased  with  every  moment  that  passed.  It  was 
strange,  but  he  had  never,  perhaps,  in  all  his  life  been 
so  happy  as  he  was  at  that  hour.  He  was  driven  by  the 
sense  of  it  to  that,  with  him,  rarest  of  all  things,  introspec- 
tion. Why  should  he  feel  like  this?  Why  did  his  heart 
beat  thickly,  why  were  his  cheeks  flushed  with  a  triumphant 
heat  ?  It  could  not  but  be  that  he  was  realising  to-day  how 
everything  was  well  with  him.  And  why  should  he  not 
realise  it  ?  Looking  up  to  the  high  vaulted  roofs  above  him, 
he  greeted  God,  greeted  Him  as  an  equal,  and  thanked  Him 
as  a  fellow-companion  who  had  helped  him  through  a 
difficult  and  dusty  journey.  He  thanked  Him  for  his  health, 
for  his  bodily  vigour  and  strength,  for  his  beauty,  for  his 
good  brain,  for  his  successful  married  life,  for  his  wife  (poor 
Amy),  for  his  house  and  furniture,  for  his  garden  and  ten- 
nis-lawn, for  his  carriage  and  horses,  for  his  son,  for  his  po- 
sition in  the  town,  his  dominance  in  the  Chapter,  his  author- 
ity on  the  School  Council,  his  importance  in  the  district.  .  .  . 
For  all  these  things  he  thanked  God,  and  he  greeted  Him  with 
an  outstretched  hand. 

"As  one  power  to  another,"  his  soul  cried,  "greetings! 
You  have  been  a  true  and  loyal  friend  to  me.  Anything  that 
I  can  do  for  You  I  will  do.  .  .  ." 


20  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

The  time  came  for  him  to  read  the  First  Lesson.  He 
crossed  to  the  Lectern  and  was  conscious  that  the  tourists 
were  whispering  together  ahout  him.  He  read  aloud,  in  his 
splendid  voice,  something  about  battles  and  vengeance, 
plagues  and  punishment,  God's  anger  and  the  trembling  Is- 
raelites. He  might  himself  have  been  an  avenging  God  as 
he  read.  He  was  uplifted  with  the  glory  of  power  and  the 
exultation  of  personal  dominion.  .  .  . 

He  crossed  back  to  his  seat,  and,  as  they  began  the  "Mag- 
nificat," his  eye  alighted  on  the  tomb  of  tlie  Black  Bishop.  In 
the  volume  on  Polchester  in  Chimes'  Cathedral  Series  (4th 
edition,  1910),  page  52,  you  will  find  this  description  of  the 
Black  Bishop's  Tomb :  "It  stands  between  the  pillars  at  the 
far  east  end  of  the  choir  in  the  eighth  bay  from  the  choir 
screen.  The  stone  screen  w^hich  surrounds  the  tomb  is  of  most 
elaborate  workmanship,  and  it  has,  in  certain  lights,  the  ef- 
fect of  delicate  lace ;  the  canopy  over  the  tomb  has  pinnacles 
which  rise  high  above  the  level  of  the  choir-stalls.  The  tomb 
itself  is  made  from  a  solid  block  of  a  dark  blue  stone.  The 
figure  of  the  bishop,  carved  in  black  marble,  lies  with  his 
hands  folded  across  his  breast,  clothed  in  his  Episcopal  robes 
and  mitre,  and  crozier  on  his  shoulder.  At  his  feet  are  a  vizor 
and  a  pair  of  gauntlets,  these  also  carved  in  black  marbla 
On  one  finger  of  his  right  hand  is  a  ring  carved  from  some 
green  stona  His  head  is  raised  by  angels  and  at  his  feet 
beyond  the  vizor  and  gauntlets  are  tiny  figures  of  four 
knights  fully  armed.  A  small  arcade  runs  round  the  tomb 
with  a  series  of  shields  in  the  spaces,  and  these  shields  have 
his  motto,  "God  giveth  Strength,"  and  the  arms  of  the  See 
of  Polcheeter.  His  epitaph  in  brass  round  the  edge  of  the 
tomb  has  thus  been  translated : 

"  'Here,  having  surrendered  himself  back  to  Gk>d,  lies 
Henry  of  Arden.  His  life,  which  was  distinguished  for  its 
great  piety,  its  unfailing  generosity,  its  noble  statesmanship, 
was  rudely  taken  in  the  nave  of  this  Cathedral  by  men  who 


ONB  PRELUDE  21 

feared  neither  the  punishment  of  their  fellows  nor  the  just 
vengeance  of  an  irate  God. 

"  'He  died,  bravely  defending  this  great  house  of  Prayer, 
and  is  now,  in  eternal  happiness,  fulfilling  the  reward  of  all 
good  and  faithful  servants,  at  his  Master's  side.'  " 

It  has  been  often  remarked  by  visitors  to  the  Cathedral 
how  curiously  this  tomb  catches  light  from  all  sides  of  the 
building,  but  this  is  undoubtedly  in  the  main  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  blue  stone  of  which  it  is  chiefly  composed  responds 
immediately  to  the  purple  and  violet  lights  that  fall  from 
the  great  East  window.  On  a  summer  day  the  blue  of  the 
tomb  seems  almost  opaque  as  though  it  were  made  of  blue 
glass,  and  the  gilt  on  the  background  of  the  screen  and  the 
brasses  of  the  groins  glitter  and  sparkle  like  fire. 

Brandon  to-day,  wrapped  in  his  strange  mood  of  almost 
mystical  triumph,  felt  as  though  he  were,  indeed,  a  reincar- 
nation of  the  great  Bishop. 

As  the  "Magnificat"  proceeded,  he  seemed  to  enter  into 
the  very  tomb  and  share  in  the  Bishop's  dust.  "I  stood  be- 
side you,"  he  might  almost  have  cried,  "when  in  the  last 
savage  encounter  you  faced  them  on  the  very  steps  of  the 
altar,  striking  down  two  of  them  with  your  fists,  falling  at 
last,  bleeding  from  a  hundred  wounds,  but  crying  at  the 
very  end,  'God  is  my  right !'  " 

As  he  stared  across  at  the  tomb,  he  seemed  to  see  the  great 
figure,  deserted  by  all  his  terrified  adherents,  lying  in  his 
blood  in  the  now  deserted  Cathedral;  he  saw  the  coloured 
dusk  creep  forward  and  cover  him.  And  then,  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  the  two  faithful  servants  who  crept  in  and 
carried  away  his  body  to  keep  it  in  safety  until  his  day 
should  come  again. 

Born  in  1100,  Henry  of  Arden  had  been  the  first  Bishop 
to  give  Polchester  dignity  and  power.  What  William  of 
Wykeham  was  to  Winchester,  that  Henry  of  Arden  was  to  the 
See  of  Polchester.  Through  all  the  wild  days  of  the  quar- 
rel between  Stephen  and  Matilda  he  had  stood  triumphant, 


22  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

yielding  at  last  only  to  the  mad  overwhelming  attacks  of  his 
private  eliemiea.  Of  those  he  had  had  many.  It  had  been 
said-  of  him  that  "he  thought  himself  God — the  proudest 
prelate  on  earth."  Proud  he  may  have  been,  but  he  had 
loved  his  Bishopric  It  was  in  his  time  that  the  Saint  Mar- 
garet's Chapel  had  been  built,  through  his  energy  that  the 
two  great  Western  Towers  had  risen,  because  of  him  that 
Polchester  now  could  boast  one  of  the  richest  revenues  of 
any  Cathedral  in  Europe.  Men  said  that  he  had  plundered, 
stolen  the  land  of  powerless  men,  himself  headed  forays 
against  neighbouring  villages  and  even  castles.  He  had  done 
it  for  the  greater  glory  of  God.  They  had  been  troublous 
times.    It  had  been  every  man  for  himself.  .  .  . 

He  had  told  his  people  that  he  was  God's  chief  servant; 
it  was  even  said  that  he  had  once,  in  the  plenitude  of  his 
power,  cried  that  he  was  God  Himself.  .  .  . 

His  figure  remained  to  this  very  day  dominating  Polches- 
ter, vast  in  stature,  black-bearded,  rejoicing  in  his  physical 
strength.  He  could  kill,  they  used  to  say,  an  ox  with  his 
fist.  .  .  . 

The  "Gloria"  rang  triumphantly  up  into  the  shadows  of 
the  nave.  Brandon  moved  once  more  across  to  the  Lectern. 
He  read  of  the  casting  of  the  money-changers  out  of  the 
Templa 

His  voice  quivered  with  pride  and  exultation  so  that  Cob- 
bett,  who  had  acquired,  after  many  years'  practice,  the  gift 
of  sleeping  during  the  Lessons  and  Sermon  with  his  eyes 
open,  woke  up  with  a  start  and  wondered  what  was  the 
matter. 

Brandon's  mood,  when  he  was  back  in  his  own  drawing- 
room,  did  not  leave  him;  it  was  rather  intensified  by  the 
cosiness  and  security  of  his  home.  Lying  back  in  his  large 
arm-chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  his  long  legs  stretched  out 
before  him,  he  could  hear  the  rain  beating  on  the  window- 


ONE  PRELUDE  23 

panes  and  beyond  that  the  murmur  of  the  organ  (Brockett, 
the  organist,  was  practising,  as  he  often  did  after  Evensong) . 

The  drawing-room  was  a  long  narrow  one  with  many  win- 
dows ;  it  was  furnished  in  excellent  taste.  The  carpet  and  the 
curtains  and  the  dark  blue  coverings  to  the  chairs  were  all  a 
little  faded,  but  this  only  gave  them  an  additional  dignity 
and  repose.  There  were  two  large  portraits  of  himself  and 
Mrs.  Brandon  painted  at  the  time  of  their  marriage,  some 
low  white  book-shelves,  a  large  copy  of  "Christ  in  the  Tem- 
ple"— plenty  of  space,  flowers,  light. 

Mrs.  Brandon  was,  at  this  time,  a  woman  of  forty-two, 
but  she  looked  very  much  less  than  that.  She  was  slight, 
dark,  pale,  quite  undistinguished.  She  had  large  grey  eyes 
that  looked  on  to  the  ground  when  you  spoke  to  her.  She 
was  considered  a  very  shy  woman,  negative  in  every  way. 
She  agreed  with  everything  that  was  said  to  her  and  seemed 
to  have  no  opinions  of  her  own.  She  was  simply  "the  wife 
of  the  Archdeacon."  Mrs.  Combermere  considered  her  a 
"poor  little  fool."  She  had  no  real  friends  in  Polchester, 
and  it  made  little  difference  to  any  gathering  whether  she 
were  there  or  not.  She  had  been  only  once  known  to  lose 
her  temper  in  public — once  in  the  market-place  she  had  seen? 
a  farmer  beat  his  horse  over  the  eyes.  She  had  actually  gone 
up  to  him  and  struck  him.  Afterwards  she  had  said  that 
"she  did  not  like  to  see  animals  ill-treated,"  The  Arch- 
deacon had  apologised  for  her,  and  no  more  had  been  said 
about  it.     The  farmer  had  borne  her  no  grudge. 

She  sat  now  at  the  little  tea-table,  her  eyes  screwed  up 
over  the  serious  question  of  giving  the  Archdeacon  his  tea 
exactly  as  he  wanted  it.  Her  whole  mind  was  apparently 
engaged  on  this  problem,  and  the  Archdeacon  did  not  care 
to-day  that  she  did  not  answer  his  questions  and  support 
his  comments  because  he  was  very,  very  happy,  the  whole  of 
his  being  thrilling  with  security  and  success  and  innocent 
pride. 

Joan  Brandon  came  in.     In  appearance  she  was,  as  Mrs. 


24  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Sampson  said,  "insignificant."  You  would  not  look  at  her 
twice  any  more  than  you  would  have  looked  at  her  mother 
twice.  Her  figure  was  slight  and  her  legs  (she  was  wearing 
long  skirts  this  year  for  the  first  time)  too  long.  Her  hair 
was  dark  brown  and  her  eyes  dark  brown.  She  had  nice  rosy 
cheeks,  but  they  were  inclined  to  freckle.  She  smiled  a  good 
deal  and  laughed,  when  in  company,  more  noisily  than  was 
proper.  "A  bit  of  a  tomboy,  I'm  afraid,"  was  what  one 
used  to  hear  about  her.  But  she  was  not  really  a  tomboy; 
she  moved  quietly,  and  her  own  bedroom  was  always  neat  and 
tidy.  She  had  very  little  pocket-money  and  only  seldom 
new  clothes,  not  because  the  Archdeacon  was  mean,  but  be- 
cause Joan  was  so  often  forgotten  and  left  out  of  the  scheme 
of  things.  It  was  surprising  that  the  only  girl  in  the  house 
should  be  so  often  forgotten,  but  the  Archdeacon  did  not 
care  for  girls,  and  Mrs.  Brandon  did  not  appear  to  think 
very  often  of  any  one  except  the  Archdeacon.  Falk,  Joan's 
brother,  now  at  Oxford,  when  he  was  at  home  had  other 
things  to  do  than  consider  Joan.  She  had  gone,  ever  since 
she  was  twelve,  to  the  Polchester  High  School  for  Girls,  and 
there  she  was  popular,  and  might  have  made  many  friends, 
had  it  not  been  that  she  could  not  invite  her  companions  to 
her  home.  Her  father  did  not  like  "noise  in  the  house." 
She  had  been  Captain  of  the  Hockey  team ;  the  small  girls 
in  the  school  had  all  adored  her.  She  had  left  the  place 
six  months  ago  and  had  come  home  to  "help  her  mother." 
She  had  had,  in  honest  fact,  six  months'  loneliness,  although 
no  one  knew  that  except  herself.  Her  mother  had  not  wanted 
her  help.  There  had  been  nothing  for  her  to  do,  and  she  had 
felt  herself  too  young  to  venture  into  the  company  of  older 
girls  in  the  town.  She  had  been  rather  "blue"  and  had 
looked  back  on  Seafield  House,  the  High  School,  with  long- 
ing, and  then  suddenly,  one  morning,  for  no  very  clear  rea- 
son she  had  taken  a  new  view  of  life.  Everything  seemed 
delightful  and  even  thrilling,  commonplace  things  that  she 
had  known  all  her  days,  the  High  Street,  keeping  her  rooms 


ONE 


PKELUDE  25 


tidy,  spending  or  saving  the  minute  monthly  allowance,  the 
Cathedral,  the  river.  She  was  all  in  a  moment  aware  that 
something  very  delightful  would  shortly  occur.  What  it 
was  she  did  not  know,  and  she  laughed  at  herself  for  imagin- 
ing that  anything  extraordinary  could  ever  happen  to  any 
one  so  commonplace  as  herself,  but  there  the  strange  feeling 
was  and  it  would  not  go  away. 

To-day,  as  always  when  her  father  was  there,  she  came  in 
very  quietly,  sat  down  near  her  mother,  saw  that  she  made 
no  sort  of  interruption  to  the  Archdeacon's  flow  of  conver- 
sation. She  found  that  he  was  in  a  good  humour  to-day, 
and  she  was  glad  of  that  because  it  would  please  her  mother. 
She  herself  had  a  great  interest  in  all  that  he  said.  She 
thought  him  a  most  wonderful  man,  and  secretly  was  swollen 
with  pride  that  she  was  his  daughter.  It  did  not  hurt  her  at 
all  that  he  never  took  any  notice  of  her.  Why  should  he? 
ISTor  did  she  ever  feel  jealous  of  Talk,  her  father's  favour- 
ite. That  seemed  to  her  quite  natural.  She  had  the  idea, 
now  most  thoroughly  exploded  but  then  universally  held  in 
Polchester,  that  women  were  greatly  inferior  to  men.  She 
did  not  read  the  more  advanced  novels  written  by  Mme. 
Sarah  Grand  and  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton.  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  her  favourite  authors  were  Miss  Alcott  and  Miss  Char- 
lotte Mary  Yonge.  Moreover,  she  herself  admired  Falk  ex- 
tremely. He  seemed  to  her  a  hero  and  always  right  in 
everything  that  he  did. 

Her  father  continued  to  talk,  and  behind  the  reverberation 
of  his  deep  voice  the  roll  of  the  organ  like  an  approving 
echo  could  faintly  be  heard. 

"There  was  a  moment  when  I  thought  Foster  was  going 
to  interfere.  I've  been  against  the  garden-roller  from  the 
first — they've  got  one  and  what  do  they  want  another  for? 
And,  anyway,  he  thinks  I  meddle  with  the  School's  affairs 
too  much.  Who  wants  to  meddle  with  the  School's  affairs? 
I'm  sure  they're  nothing  but  a  nuisance,  but  some  one's 
got  to  prevent  the  place  from  going  to  wrack  and  ruin,  and 


26  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


if  they  all  leave  it  to  me  I  can't  very  well  refuse  it,  can  I  ? 
Hey?" 

"No,  dear." 

"You  see  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

*^^ell,  then "   (As  though  Mrs.  Brandon  had  just  been 

overcome  in  an  argument  in  which  she'd  shown  the  greatest 
obstinacy.)  "There  you  are.  It  would  be  false  modesty 
to  deny  that  I've  got  the  Chapter  more  or  less  in  my  pocket 
And  why  shouldn't  I  have?  Has  any  one  worked  harder 
for  this  place  and  the  Cathedral  than  I  have?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Well,  then.  .  .  .  There's  this  new  fellow  Ronder  com- 
ing to-day.  Don't  know  much  about  him,  but  he  won't 
give  much  trouble,  I  expect — trouble  in  the  way  of  delaying 
things,  I  mean.  What  we  want  is  work  done  expeditiously. 
I've  just  about  got  that  Chapter  moving  at  last.  Ten  years' 
hard  work.     Deserve  a  V.C.  or  something.    Hey  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I'm  sure  you  do." 

T^ie  Archdeacon  gave  one  of  his  well-known  roars  of 
laughter — a  laugh  famous  throughout  the  county,  a  laugh 
described  by  his  admirers  as  "Homeric,"  by  his  enemies  as 
"ear-splitting."  There  was,  however,  enemies  or  no  ene- 
mies, something  sympathetic  in  that  laugh,  something  boy- 
ish and  simple  and  honest. 

He  suddenly  pulled  himself  up,  bringing  his  long  legs 
close  against  his  broad  chest. 

"No  letter  from  Falk  to-day,  was  there  ?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Humph.  That's  three  weeks  we  haven't  heard.  Hope 
there's  nothing  wrong." 

"What  could  there  be  wrong,  dear?" 

"Nothing,  of  course.  .  .  .  Well,  Joan,  and  what  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  day  ?" 

It  was  only  in  his  most  happy  and  resplendent  moods 
that  the  Archdeacon   held  jocular  conversations  with   his 


ONE 


PEELUDE  27 


daughter.  These  conversations  had  been,  in  the  past,  mo- 
ments of  agony  and  terror  to  her,  but  since  that  morning 
when  she  had  suddenly  woken  to  a  realisation  of  the  mar- 
vellous possibilities  in  life  her  terror  had  left  her.  There 
were  other  people  in  the  word  besides  her  father.  .  .  . 

JSTevertheless,  a  little,  her  agitation  was  still  with  her.  She 
looked  up  at  him,  smiling. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  father.  ...  I  went  to  the  Library 
this  morning  to  change  the  books  for  mother " 

"Novels,  I  suppose.  No  one  ever  reads  anything  but 
trash  nowadays." 

"They  hadn't  anything  that  mother  put  down.  They 
never  have.  Miss  Milton  sits  on  the  new  novels  and  keeps 
them  for  Mrs.  Sampson  and  Mrs.  Combermere." 

"Sits  on  them?" 

"Yes — really  sits  on  them.  I  saw  her  take  one  from 
under  her  skirt  the  other  day  when  Mrs.  Sampson  asked 
for  it    It  was  one  that  mother  has  wanted  a  long  time." 

The  Archdeacon  was  angry.  "I  never  heard  anything  so 
scandalous.  I'll  just  see  to  that.  What's  the  use  of  being 
on  the  Library  Committee  if  that  kind  of  thing  happens? 
That  woman  shall  go." 

"Oh  no!  father!  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  she  shall'  go.  I  never  heard  anything  so 
dishonest  in  my  life!  .  .  ." 

Joan  remembered  that  little  conversation  until  the  end 
of  her  life.     And  with  reason. 

The  door  was  flung  open.  Some  one  came  hurriedly  in, 
then  stopped,  with  a  sudden  arrested  impulse,  looking  at 
them.     It  was  Falk. 

Falk  was  a  very  good-looking  man — fair  hair,  light  blue 
eyes  like  his  father's,  slim  and  straight  and  quite  obviously 
fearless.  It  was  that  quality  of  courage  that  struck  every 
one  who  saw  him ;  it  was  not  only  that  he  feared,  it  seemed, 
no  one  and  nothing,  but  that  he  went  a  step  further  than  that, 
spending  his  life  in  defying  every  one  and  everything,  as  a 


28  THE  CATHEDRAL 

practised  dueller  might  challenge  every  one  he  met  in  or- 
der to  keep  his  play  in  practice.  "I  don't  like  young  Bran- 
don," Mrs.  Sampson  said.  "He  snorts  contempt  at 
you.  .  .  ." 

He  was  only  twenty-one,  a  contemptuous  age.  He  looked 
as  though  he  had  been  living  in  that  house  for  weeks,  al- 
though, as  a  fact,  he  had  just  driven  up,  after  a  long  and 
tiresome  journey,  in  an  ancient  cab  through  the  pouring 
rain.  The  Archdeacon  gazed  at  his  son  in  a  bewildered, 
confused  amaze,  as  though  he,  a  convinced  sceptic,  were 
suddenly  confronted,  in  broad  daylight,  with  an  undoubted 
ghost. 

"What's  the  matter?'*  he  said  at  last  **Why  are  you 
here?" 

"I've  been  sent  down,"  said  Falk. 

It  was  Qharacteristic  of  the  relationship  in  that  family 
that,  at  that  statement,  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Joan  did  not 
look  at  Falk  but  at  the  Archdeacon. 

"Sent  down !" 

"Yes,  for  ragging!     They  wanted  to  do  it  last  term.'* 

"Sent  downl"  The  Archdeacon  shot  to  his  feet;  his 
voice  suddenly  lifted  into  a  cry.  "And  you  have  the  im- 
pertinence to  come  here  and  tell  me !  You  walk  in  as  though 
nothing  had  happened !     You  walk  in  !  .  .  ." 

"You're  angry,"  said  Falk,  smiling.  "Of  course  I  knew 
you  would  be.  You  might  hear  me  out  first.  But  I'll 
come  along  when  I've  unpacked  and  you're  a  bit  cooler. 
I  wanted  some  tea,  but  I  suppose  that  will  have  to  wait. 
You  just  listen,  father,  and  you'll  find  it  isn't  so  bad.  Ox- 
ford's a  rotten  place  for  any  one  who  wants  to  be  on  his 
own,  and,  an;)'way,  you  won't  have  to  pay  my  bills  any  more." 

Falk  turned  and  went. 

The  Archdeacon,  as  he  stood  there,  felt  a  dim  mysterious 
pain  as  though  an  adversary  whom  he  completely  despised 
had  found  suddenly  with  his  weapon  a  joint  in  his  armour. 


CHAPTEE  II 


EONDEKS 


THE  train  that  brought  Falk  Brandon  back  to  Polchester 
brought  also  the  Bonders — Frederick  Render,  newly 
Canon  of  Polchester,  and  his  aunt,  Miss  Alice  Render. 
About  them  the  station  gathered  in  a  black  cloud,  dirty, 
obscure,  lit  by  flashes  of  light  and  flame,  shaken  with  screams, 
rumblings,  the  crashing  of  carriage  against  carriage,  the  rat- 
tle of  cab-wheels  on  the  cobbles  outside.  To-day  also  there 
was  the  hiss  and  scatter  of  the  rain  upon  the  glass  roof. 
The  Renders  stood,  not  bewildered,  for  that  they  never  were, 
but  thinking  what  would  be  best.  The  new  Canon  was  a 
round  man,  round-shouldered,  round-faced,  round-stomached, 
round  legged.  A  fair  height,  he  was  not  ludicrous,  but  it 
seemed  that  if  you  laid  him  down  he  would  roll  naturally, 
still  smiling,  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  station.  He  wore 
large,  very  round  spectacles.  His  black  clerical  coat  and 
trousers  and  hat  were  scrupulously  clean  and  smartly  cut. 
He  was  not  a  dandy,  but  he  was  not  shabby.  He  smiled  a 
great  deal,  not  nervously  as  curates  are  supposed  to  smile,  not 
effusively,  but  simply  with  geniality.  His  aunt  was  a  con- 
trast, thin,  straight,  stiff  white  collar,  little  black  bow-tie, 
coat  like  a  man's,  skirt  with  no  nonsense  about  it.  No  non- 
sense about  her  anywhere.  She  was  not  unamiable,  perhaps, 
but  business  came  first. 

"Well,  what  do  we  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"We  collect  our  bags  and  find  the  cab,"  she  answered 
briskly. 

They  found  their  bags,  and  there  were  a  great  many  of 

29 


30  THE  CATHEDRA.L  book 

them;  Mis3  Render,  having  seen  that  they  were  all  there 
and  that  there  was  no  nonsense  about  the  porter,  moved  off 
to  the  barrier  followed  by  her  nephew. 

As  they  came  into  the  station  square,  all  smelling  of  hay 
and  the  rain,  the  deluge  slowly  withdrew  its  forcc?s,  recall- 
ing them  gradually  so  that  the  drops  whispered  now,  patter- 
patter — pit-pat.  A  pigeon  hovered  do^vn  and  pecked  at  the 
cobbles.    Faint  colour  threaded  the  thick  blotting-paper  grey. 

Old  Fawcett  himself  had  come  to  the  station  to  meet 
them.  Why  had  he  felt  it  to  be  an  occasion?  God  only 
knows.  A  new  Canon  was  nothing  to  him.  He  very  seldom 
now,  being  over  eighty,  with  a  strange  "wormy"  pain  in  his 
left  ear,  took  his  horses  out  himself.  He  saved  his  money 
and  counted  it  over  by  his  fireside  to  see  that  his  old  woman 
didn't  get  any  of  it.  He  hated  his  old  woman,  and  in  a 
vaguely  superstitious,  thoroughly  Glebeshire  fashion  half- 
believed  that  she  had  cast  a  spell  over  him  and  was  really 
responsible  for  his  "wormy"  ear. 

Why  had  he  come?  He  didn't  himself  know.  Perhaps 
Render  was  going  to  be  of  importance  in  the  place,  he  had 
come  from  London  and  th?y  all  had  money  in  London.  He 
licked  his  purple  protniding  lips  greedily  as  he  saw  the 
generous  man.     Yes,  kindly  and  generous  he  looked.  .  .  . 

They  got  into  the  musty  cab  and  rattled  away  over  the 
cobbles. 

"I  hope  Mrs.  Clay  got  the  telegram  all  right."  Miss 
Render's  thin  bosom  was  a  little  agitated  beneath  its  white 
waistcoat.  "You'll  never  forgive  me  if  things  aren't  look- 
ing as  though  we'd  lived  in  the  place  for  months." 

Alice  Render  was  over  sixty  and  as  active  as  a  woman 
of  forty.    Render  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"Never  forgive  you  1  What  words !  Do  I  ever  cherish 
grievances?     Never  .  .  .  but  T  do  like  to  bo  comfortable." 

"Well,  everything  was  all  rigl't  a  week  ago.  I've  slaved 
at  the  place,  as  you  know,  and  Mrs.  Clay's  a  jewel — but  she 


ONE 


PRELUDE  31 


complains  of  the  Polcliester  maids — says  there  isn't  one  that's 
any  good.     Oh,  I  want  my  tea,  I  want  my  tea !" 

They  were  climbing  up  from  the  market-place  into  the 
High  Street.    Render  looked  about  him  with  genial  curiosity. 

"Very  nice,"  he  said;  "I  believe  I  can  be  comfortable 
here." 

"If  you  aren't  comfortable  you  certainly  won't  stay,"  she 
answered  him  sharply. 

"Then  I  must  be  comfortable,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

He  laughed  a  great  deal,  but  absent-mindedly,  as  though 
his  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  It  would  have  been  interesting 
to  a  student  of  human  nature  to  have  been  there  and  watched 
him  as  he  sat  back  in  the  cab,  looking  through  the  window, 
indeed,  but  seeing  apparently  nothing.  He  seemed  to  be 
gazing  through  his  round  spectacles  very  short-sightedly,  his 
eyes  screwed  up  and  dim.  His  fat  soft  hands  were  planted 
solidly  on  his  thick  knees. 

The  observer  would  have  been  interested  because  he  would 
soon  have  realised  that  Render  saw  everything;  nothing, 
however  insignificant,  escaped  him,  but  he  seemed  to  see 
with  his  brain  as  though  he  had  learnt  the  trick  of  forcing 
it  to  some  new  function  that  did  not  properly  belong  to  it. 
The  broad  white  forehead  under  the  soft  black  clerical  hat 
was  smooth,  unwrinkled,  mild  and  calm.  .  .  .  He  had 
trained  it  to  be  so. 

The  High  Street  was  like  any  High  Street  of  a  small 
Cathedral  town  in  the  early  evening.  The  pavements  were 
sleek  and  shiny  after  the  rain;  people  were  walking  with 
the  air  of  being  unusually  pleased  with  the  world,  always 
the  human  expression  when  the  storms  have  withdrawn  and 
there  is  peace  and  colour  in  the  sky.  There  were  lights 
behind  the  solemn  panes  of  Bennett's  the  bookseller's,  that 
fine  shop  whose  first  master  had  seen  Sir  Walter  Scott  in 
London  and  spoken  to  Byron.  In  his  window  were  rows 
of  the  classics  in  calf  and  first  editions  of  the  Surtees  books 
and  Dr.  Syntax.     At  the  very  top  of  the  High  Street  was 


32  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Mellock's  the  pastry-cook's,  gay  with  its  gas,  rich  with  its  fa- 
mous saffron  buns,  its  still  more  famous  ginger-bread  cake, 
and,  most  famous  of  all,  its  lemon  biscuits.  Even  as  the 
Bonders'  cab  paused  for  a  moment  before  it  turned  to  pass 
under  the  dark  Arden  Gate  on  to  the  asphalt  of  the  Precincts, 
the  great  Mrs.  Mellock  herself,  round  and  rubicund,  came  to 
the  door  and  looked  about  her  at  the  weather.  An  errand-boy 
passed,  whistling,  down  the  hill,  a  stiff  military-looking 
gentleman  with  white  moustaches  mounted  majestically  the 
steps  of  the  Conservative  Club;  then  they  rattled  under  the 
black  archway,  echoed  for  a  moment  on  the  noisy  cobbles,  then 
slipped  into  the  quiet  solemnity  of  the  Precincts  asphalt.  It 
was  Brandon  who  had  insisted  on  the  asphalt.  Old  residents 
had  complained  that  to  take  away  the  cobbles  would  be  to  rid 
the  Precincts  of  all  its  atmosphere. 

"I  don't  care  about  atmosphere,"  said  the  Archdeacon, 
"I  want  to  sleep  at  night." 

Very  quiet  here ;  not  a  sound  penetrated.  The  Cathedral 
was  a  huge  shadow  above  its  darkened  lawTis;  not  a  human 
soul  was  to  be  seen. 

The  cab  stopped  with  a  jerk  at  Number  Eight.  The  bell 
was  rung  by  old  Fawcett,  who  stood  on  the  top  step  looking 
down  at  Render  and  wondering  how  much  he  dared  to  ask 
him.  Ask  him  too  much  now  and  perhaps  he  would  not 
deal  with  him  in  the  future.  Moreover,  although  the  man 
wore  large  spectacles  and  was  fat  he  was  probably  not 
a  fool.  .  .  .  Fawcett  could  not  tell  why  he  was  so  sure,  but 
there  was  something.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Clay  was  at  the  door,  smiling  and  ordering  a  small 
frightened  girl  to  "hurry  up  now."  Miss  Ronder  disap- 
peared into  the  house.  Ronder  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
about  him  as  though  he  were  a  spy  in  enemy  country  and 
must  let  nothing  escape  him. 

"Whose  is  that  big  place  there  ?"  he  asked  Fawcett,  point- 
ing to  a  house  that  stood  by  itself  at  the  farther  comer  of 
the  Precincts. 


OKE 


PEELUDE  33 


"Archdeacon  Brandon's,  sir." 

"Oh!  .  .  ."  Ronder  mounted  the  steps.  "Good  night," 
he  said  to  Fawcett.     "Mrs.  Clay,  pay  the  cabman,  please." 

The  Renders  had  taken  this  house  a  month  ago ;  for  two 
months  before  that  it  had  stood  desolate,  wisps  of  paper  and 
straw  blowing  about  it,  its  "To  let"  notice  creaking  and 
screaming  in  every  wind.  The  Hon.  Mrs.  Pentecoste,  an 
eccentric  old  lady,  had  lived  there  for  many  years,  and  had 
died  in  the  middle  of  a  game  of  patience;  her  worn  and 
tattered  furniture  had  been  sold  at  auction,  and  the  house 
had  remained  unlet  for  a  considerable  period  because  peo- 
ple in  the  town  said  that  the  ghost  of  Mrs.  Pentecoste's  cat 
(a  famous  blue  Persian)  walked  there.  The  Renders  cared 
nothing  for  ghosts ;  the  house  was  exactly  what  they  wanted. 
It  had  two  panelled  rooms,  two  powder-closets,  and  a  little 
walled  garden  at  the  back  with  fruit  trees. 

It  was  quite  wonderful  what  Miss  Ronder  had  done  in  a 
month ;  she  had  abandoned  Eaton  Square  for  a  week,  worked 
in  the  Polchester  house  like  a  slave,  then  retired  back  to 
Eaton  Square  again,  leaving  Mrs.  Clay,  her  aide-de-camp,  to 
manage  the  rest.  Mrs.  Clay  had  managed  very  well.  She 
would  not  have  been  in  the  service  of  the  Renders  for  nearly 
fifteen  years  had  she  not  had  a  gift  for  managing.  .  .  . 

Ronder,  washed  and  brushed,  came  down  to  tea,  looked 
about  him,  and  saw  that  all  was  good. 

"I  congratulate  you.  Aunt  Alice,"  he  said — "excellent !" 

Miss  Ronder  very  slightly  flushed. 

"There  are  a  lot  of  things  still  to  be  done,"  she  said; 
nevertheless  she  was  immensely  pleased. 

The  drawing-room  was  charming.  The  stencilled  walls, 
the  cushions  of  the  chairs,  the  cover  of  a  gate-legged  table, 
the  curtains  of  the  mullioned  windows  were  of  a  warm  dark 
blue.  And  whatever  in  the  room  was  not  blue  seemed  to  be 
white,  or  wood  in  its  natural  colour,  or  polished  brass.  Books 
ran  round  the  room  in  low  white  book-cases.  In  one  corner 
a  pure  white  Hermes  stood  on  a  pedestal  with  tiny  wings  out- 


84  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

spread.  There  was  only  one  picture,  an  excellent  copy  of 
"Rembrandt's  mother."  The  windows  looked  out  to  the 
garden,  now  veiled  by  the  dusk  of  evening.  Tea  was  on  a 
little  table  close  to  the  white  tiled  fireplace.  A  little  square 
brass  clock  chimed  the  half-hour  as  Ronder  came  in. 

"I  suppose  Ellen  will  be  over,"  Ronder  said.  He  drank 
in  the  details  of  the  room  with  a  quite  sensual  pleasure.  He 
went  over  to  the  Hermes  and  lifted  it,  holding  it  for  a  mo- 
ment in  his  podgy  hands. 

"You  beauty !"  he  whispered  aloud.  He  put  it  back,  turned 
round  to  his  aunt. 

"Of  course  Ellen  will  be  over,"  he  repeated. 

"Of  course,"  Miss  Ronder  repeated,  picking  up  the  old 
square  black  lacquer  tea-caddy  and  peering  into  it. 

He  picked  up  the  books  on  the  table — two  novels.  Senti- 
mental Tommy,  by  J.  M.  Barrie,  and  Sir  George  Tressady, 
by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  lAv.  Swinburne's  Tale  of  Balen, 
and  The  Works  of  Max  Beerbohm.  Last  of  all  Leslie 
Stephen's  Social  Rights  and  Duties. 

He  looked  at  them  all,  with  their  light  yellow  Mudie  la- 
bels, their  fresh  bindings,  then,  slowly  and  very  carefully, 
put  them  back  on  the  table. 

He  always  handled  books  as  though  they  were  human 
beings. 

He  came  and  sat  down  by  the  fire. 

"I  won't  see  over  the  place  until  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
**What  have  you  done  about  the  other  books  ?" 

"The  book-cases  are  in.  It's  the  best  room  in  the  house. 
Looks  over  the  river  and  gets  most  of  the  light.  The  books 
are  as  you  packed  them.  I  haven't  dared  touch  them.  Li 
fact,  I've  left  that  room  entirely  for  you  to  arrange." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you've  done  the  rest  of  this  house  as 
■well  as  this  room,  you'll  do.  It's  jolly — it  really  is.  I'm  go- 
ing to  like  this  place." 

"And  you  hated  the  very  idea  of  it." 

"I  hated  the  discomfort  there'd  be  before  we  settled  in. 


ONE  PRELUDE  35 

But  the  settling  in  is  going  to  be  easier  than  I  thought.  Of 
course  we  don't  know  yet  how  the  land  lies.  Ellen  will 
tell  us." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little.  Then  he  looked  at  her  with 
a  puzzled,  half-humorous,  half-ironical  glance. 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  blow  to  you,  Aunt  Alice,  burying  yourself 
down  here.  London  was  the  breath  of  your  nostrils.  What 
did  you  come  for  ?    Love  of  me  ?" 

She  looked  steadily  back  at  him. 

"Wot  love  exactly.  Curiosity,  perhaps.  I  want  to  see 
at  first  hand  what  you'll  do.  You're  the  most  interesting 
human  being  I've  ever  met,  and  that  isn't  prejudice.  Aunts 
do  not,  as  a  rule,  find  their  nephews  interesting.  And  what 
have  you  come  here  for?  I  assure  you  I  haven't  the  least 
idea." 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Clay. 

"Miss  Stiles,"  she  said. 

Miss  Stiles,  who  came  in,  was  not  handsome.  She  was 
large  and  fat,  with  a  round  red  face  like  a  sun,  and  she 
wore  colours  too  bright  for  her  size.  She  had  a  slow  soft 
voice  like  the  melancholy  moo  of  a  cow.  She  was  not  a  bad 
woman^  but,  temperamentally,  was  made  unhappy  by  the 
success  or  good  fortune  of  others.  Were  you  in  distress, 
she  would  love  you,  cherish  you,  never  abandon  you.  She 
would  share  her  last  penny  with  you,  run  to  the  end  of  the 
world  for  you,  defend  you  before  the  whole  of  humanity. 
Were  you,  however,  in  robust  health,  she  would  hint  to 
every  one  of  a  possible  cancer;  were  you  popular,  it  would 
worry  her  terribly  and  she  would  discover  a  thousand  faults 
in  your  character;  were  you  successful  in  your  work,  she 
would  pray  for  your  approaching  failure  lest  you  should  be- 
come arrogant.  She  gossiped  without  cessation,  and  al- 
ways, as  it  were,  to  restore  the  proper  balance  of  the  world, 
to  pull  down  the  mighty  from  their  high  places,  to  lift  the 
humble  only  that  they  in  their  turn  might  be  pulled  down. 


36  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

She  played  fluently  and  execrably  on  the  piano.  She  spent 
her  day  in  running  from  house  to  house. 

She  had  independent  means,  lived  four  months  of  the  year 
in  Polchester  (she  had  been  bom  there  and  her  family  had 
been  known  there  for  many  generations  before  her),  four 
months  in  London,  and  the  rest  of  the  year  abroad.  She  had 
met  Alice  Ronder  in  London  and  attached  herself  to  her. 
She  liked  the  Ronders  because  they  never  boasted  of  their 
successes,  because  Alice  had  a  weak  heart,  because  Ronder, 
who  knew  her  character,  half-huraorously  deprecated  his 
talents,  which  were,  as  he  knew  well  enough,  no  mean  ones. 
She  bored  Alice  Ronder,  but  Ronder  found  her  useful.  She 
told  him  a  great  deal  that  he  wanted  to  know,  and  although 
she  was  never  accurate  in  her  information,  he  could  separate 
the  wheat  from  the  chaff.  She  was  a  walking  mischief- 
maker,  but  meant  no  harm  to  a  living  soul.  She  prided  her- 
self on  her  honesty,  on  saying  exactly  what  she  thought  to 
every  one.  She  was  kindness  itself  to  her  servants,  who 
adored  her,  as  did  railway-porters,  cabmen  and  newspaper 
men.  She  overtipped  wherever  she  went  because  "she  could 
not  bear  not  to  bo  liked."  In  our  Polchester  world  she  was 
an  important  factor.  She  was  always  the  first  to  hear  any 
piece  of  news  in  our  town,  and  she  gave  it  a  wrong  twist 
just  as  fast  as  she  could. 

She  was  really  delighted  to  see  the  Ronders,  and  told  thera 
so  with  many  assurances  of  affection,  but  she  was  a  little 
distressed  to  find  the  room  so  neat  and  settled.  She  would 
have  preferred  them  to  bo  "in  a  thorough  mess"  and  badly 
in  need  of  her  help. 

"My  dear  Alice,  how  quick  you've  been !  How  clever 
you  are!  At  the  same  time  I  think  you'll  find  there's  a  good 
deal  to  arrange  still.  The  Polchester  girls  are  so  slow  and 
always  breaking  things.  I  suppose  some  things  have  been 
smashed  in  the  move — nothing  very  valuable,  I  hope." 

"Lots  of  things,  Ellen,"  said  Ronder,  laughing.  "We've 
had  the  most  awful  time  and  badly  need  your  help.     It's 


ONE 


PRELUDE  37 


only  this  room  that  Aunt  Alice  got  straight — just  to  have 
something  to  show,  you  know.  And  our  journey  down! 
I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was,  hardly  room  to  breathe  and 
coming  up  here  in  the  rain !" 

"Oh,  you  poor  things !  What  a  welcome  to  Polchester ! 
You  must  simply  have  hated  the  look  of  the  whole  place. 
Such  a  bad  introduction,  and  everything  looking  as  gloomy 
and  depressing  as  possible.  I  expect  you  wished  yourselves 
well  out  of  it.  I  don't  wonder  you're  depressed.  I  hope 
you're  not  feeling  your  heart,  Alice  dear." 

"Well,  I  am  a  little,"  acknowledged  Miss  Konder.  "But 
I  shall  go  to  bed  early  and  get  a  good  night." 

"You  poor  dear!  I  was  afraid  you'd  be  absolutely  done 
up.  Now,  you're  not  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  I'll  run 
about  and  do  your  shopping  for  you.  I  insist.  How's  Mrs. 
Clay?" 

"A  little  grumpy  at  having  so  much  to  do,"  said  Render, 
*T>ut  she'll  get  over  it." 

"I'm  afraid  she's  a  little  ill-tempered  at  times,"  said  Miss 
Stiles  with  satisfaction.  "I  thought  when  I  came  in  that 
she  looked  out  of  sorts.  Troubles  never  come  singly,  of 
course." 

All  was  well  now  and  Miss  Stiles  completely  satisfied. 
She  admired  the  room  and  the  Hermes,  and  prophesied  that, 
after  a  week  or  two,  they  would  probably  find  things  not 
80  bad  after  all.  She  drank  several  cups  of  tea  and  passed 
on  to  general  conversation.  It  was  obvious,  very  soon,  that 
she  was  bursting  with  a  piece  of  news. 

"I  can  see,  Ellen,"  said  Render,  humorously  observing  her, 
"that  you're  longing  to  tell  us  something." 

"Well,  it  is  interesting.  What  do  you  think  ?  Ealk  Bran- 
don has  been  sent  down  from  Oxford  for  misbehaviour.'^ 

"And  who  is  Falk  Brandon,?"  asked  Render. 

"The  Archdeacon's  son.  His  only  boy.  I've  told  you 
about  Archdeacon  Brandon  many  times.  He  thinks  he  runs 
the  town  and  has  been  terribly  above  himself  for  a  long 


38  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

while.  This  will  pull  him  down  a  little.  I  must  say,  al- 
though I  don't  want  to  be  uncharitable,  that  I'm  glad  of  it. 
It's  too  absurd  the  way  that  he's  been  having  everything  his 
own  way  hera  All  the  Canons  are  over  ninety  and  simply 
give  in  to  him  about  everything." 

"When  did  this  happen  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  only  just  happened.  He  arrived  by  your  train. 
I  saw  young  George  Lascelles  as  I  was  on  my  way  up  to  you. 
He  met  him  at  the  station — Falk,  I  mean — and  he  didn't 
pretend  to  disguise  it.  George  said  'Hullo,  Brandon,  what 
are  you  doing  here?'  and  Falk  said  'Oh,  I've  been  sent 
down' — just  like  that.  Didn't  pretend  to  disguise  it.  He's 
always  been  as  brazen  as  anything.  He'll  give  his  father 
a  lot  of  trouble  before  he's  done." 

"There's  nothing  very  terrible,"  said  Render,  laughing, 
"in  being  sent  down  from  Oxford.  I've  known  plenty  of 
good  fellows  who  were." 

Miss  Stiles  looked  annoyed.  "Oh,  but  you  don't  know. 
It  will  be  terrible  for  his  father.  He's  the  proudest  man 
in  England.  Some  people  call  it  conceit,  but,  however  that 
may  be,  he  thinks  there's  nothing  like  his  family.  Even 
poor  Mrs.  Brandon  he's  proud  of  when  she  isn't  there.  It 
will  be  awful  for  him  that  every  one  should  know." 

Render  said  nothing. 

"You  know,"  said  Miss  Stiles,  who  felt  that  her  news  had 
fallen  flat,  "you'll  have  to  fight  him  or  give  in  to  him. 
There's  no  other  way  here.     I  hope  you'll  fight  him." 

"I?"  said  Render.  "Why,  I  never  fight  anybody.  I'm 
much  too  lazy." 

"Then  you'll  never  bo  comfortable  here,  that's  all.  He 
can't  bear  being  crossed.  He  must  have  his  way  about 
everything.  If  the  Bishop  weren't  so  old  and  the  Dean  so 
stupid.  .  .  .  What  we  want  here  is  a  little  life  in  the  place." 

"You  needn't  look  to  us  for  that,  Ellen,"  said  Render. 
"We've  come  here  to  rest 

"Peace,  perfect  peace.  .  .  ." 


ONE  PKELUDE  39 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Miss  Stiles,  tossing  her  head- 
"I'd  be  disappointed  to  think  it  of  you." 

Alice  Eonder  gave  her  nephew  a  curious  look,  half  of 
amusement,  half  of  expectation. 

"It's  quite  true,  Ellen,"  she  said.  "Kow,  if  you've  fin- 
ished your  tea,  come  and  look  at  the  rest  of  the  house.'* 


CHAPTER  HI 


ONE  OF   JOAN  S  DAYS 


I  FIND  it  difficult  now  to  realise  how  apart  from  the  life 
of  the  world  Polchestcr  was  in  those  days.  Even  now, 
when  the  War  has  shaken  up  and  jostled  together  every  small 
village  in  Great  Britain,  Polchcster  still  has  some  shreds 
of  its  isolation  left  to  it ;  but  then — why,  it  might  have  been 
a  walled-in  fortress  of  mediaeval  times,  for  all  its  connection 
with  the  outside  world  I 

This  isolation  was  quite  deliberately  maintained.  I  don't 
mean,  of  course,  that  Mrs.  Combermere  and  Brandon  and 
old  Bentinck-Major  and  Mrs.  Sampson  said  to  themselves 
in  so  many  words,  "We  will  keep  this  to  ourselves  and 
defend  ita  walls  against  every  new  invader,  every  new  idea, 
new  custom,  new  impulse.  We  will  all  be  butchered  rather 
than  allow  one  old  form,  tradition,  superstition  to  go !"  It 
was  not  as  conscious  as  that,  but  in  effect  it  was  that  that 
it  came  to.  And  they  were  wonderfully  assisted  by  circum- 
stances. It  is  true  that  the  main  line  ran  through  Polches- 
tcr from  Drymouth,  but  its  travellers  were  hurrying  south, 
and  only  a  few  trippers,  a  few  Americans,  a  few  sentimen- 
talists stayed  to  see  the  Cathedral ;  and  those  who  stayed 
found  "The  Bull"  an  impossibly  inconvenient  and  uncom- 
fortable hostelry  and  did  not  come  again.  It  is  true  that  even 
then,  in  1897,  there  were  many  agitations  by  sharp  business 
men  like  Crosbie  and  .John  Allen,  Croppet  and  Fred  Bam- 
Btaplo,  to  make  the  place  more  widely  knowm,  more  commer- 
cially attractive.  It  was  not  until  later  that  the  golf  cx)urse 
was  laid  out  and  the  St.  Leath  Hotel  rose  on  Pol  Hill.    But 

40 


PRELUDE  41 

other  tnings  were  tried — steamers  on  the  Pol,  char-^-bancs  to 
various  places  of  local  interest,  and  so  on — but,  at  this  time, 
all  these  efforts  failed.  The  Cathedral  was  too  strong  for 
them,  above  all  Brandon  and  Mrs.  Combermere  were  too 
strong  for  them.  Nothing  was  done  to  encourage  strangers ; 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Mrs.  Combermere  didn't  pay  old  Jol- 
liffe  of  "The  Bull"  so  much  a  year  to  keep  his  hotel  incon- 
venient and  insanitary.  The  men  on  the  To\vn  Council 
were  for  the  most  part  like  the  Canons,  aged  and  conserva- 
tive. It  is  true  that  it  was  in  1897  that  Barnstaple  was 
elected  Mayor,  but  without  Bonder  I  doubt  whether  even 
he  would  have  been  able  to  do  very  much. 

The  town  then  revolved,  so  to  speak,  entirely  on  its  own 
axis;  it  revolved  between  the  two  great  events  of  the  year, 
the  summer  Polchester  Fair,  the  winter  County  Ball,  and 
those  two  great  affairs  were  conducted,  in  every  detail  and 
particular,  as  they  had  been  conducted  a  hundred  years  be- 
fore. I  find  it  strange,  writing  from  the  angle  of  to-day,  to 
conceive  it  possible  that  so  short  a  time  ago  anything  in 
England  could  have  been  so  conservative.  I  myself  was 
only  thirteen  years  of  age  when  Bonder  came  to  our  town, 
and  saw  all  grown  figures  with  the  exaggerated  colour  and 
romance  that  local  inquisitive  age  bestows.  About  my  own 
contemporaries,  young  Jeremy  Cole  for  instance,  there  was 
no  colour  at  all,  but  the  older  figures  were  strange — gigan- 
tic, almost  mythological.  Mrs.  Combermere,  the  Dean, 
the  Archdeacon,  Mrs.  Sampson,  Canon  Bonder,  moved  about 
the  town,  to  my  young  eyes,  like  gods  and  goddesses,  and 
it  was  not  until  after  my  return  to  Polchester  at  the  end  of 
my  first  Cambridge  year  that  I  saw  clearly  how  small  a  town 
it  was  and  how  tiny  the  figures  in  it. 

Joan  Brandon  thought  her  father  a  marvellous  man,  as 
I  have  already  said,  but  she  had  seen  him  too  often  lose  his 
temper,  too  often  snub  her  mother,  too  often  be  upset  bj 
trivial  and  unimportant  details,  to  conceive  him  roman- 
tically.    Ealk,   her  brother,   was  romantic  to  her  beoausb 


43  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

she  had  seen  so  much  less  of  him ;  her  father  she  knew  too 
well.  For  some  time  after  Falk's  return  from  Oxford  noth- 
ing happened.  Joan  did  not  know  what  exactly  she  had  ex- 
pected to  happen,  but  she  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  more 
was  going  on  behind  the  scenes  than  she  knew. 

The  Archdeacon  did  not  speak  to  Falk  unless  he  were 
compelled,  but  Falk  did  not  seem  to  mind  this  in  the  least. 
His  handsome  defiant  face  flashed  scorn  at  the  whole  family. 

He  was  out  of  the  house  most  of  the  day,  came  down  to 
breakfast  when  every  one  else  had  finished,  and  often  was 
not  present  at  dinner  in  the  evening.  The  Archdeacon  had 
said  that  breakfast  was  not  to  be  kept  for  him,  but  never- 
theless breakfast  was  there,  on  the  table,  however  late  he 
was.  The  cook  and,  indeed,  all  the  servants  adored  him 
because,  I  suppose,  he  had  no  sense  of  class-difference  at 
all  and  laughed  and  joked  with  any  one  if  he  was  in  a  good 
temper.  All  these  first  days  he  spoke  scarcely  one  word  to 
Joan;  it  was  as  though  the  whole  family  were  in  his  black 
books  for  some  disgraceful  act — they  were  the  guilty  ones 
and  not  he. 

Joan  blamed  herself  for  feeling  so  light-hearted  and  gay 
during  this  family  crisis,  but  she  could  not  help  it.  A  very 
short  time  ago  the  knowledge  that  battle  was  engaged  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  house  would  have  made  her  miserable  and 
apprehensive,  but  now  it  seemed  to  be  all  outside  her  and  un- 
connected with  her  as  though  she  had  a  life  of  her  own  that 
no  one  could  touch.  Her  courage  seemed  to  grow  with  every 
half-hour  of  her  life.  Some  months  passed,  and  then  one 
morning  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  and  found  her 
mother  rather  bewildered  and  distressed. 

"Oh  dear,  I  really  don't  know  what  to  do!"  said  her 
mother. 

It  was  so  seldom  that  Joan  was  appealed  to  for  advice 
that  her  heart  now  beat  with  pride. 

*  What's  the  matter,  mother?"  she  asked,  trying  to  look 
dignified  and  unconcerned. 


ONE 


PEELUDE  43 


Mrs.  Brandon  looked  at  her  with  a  frightened  and  startled 
look  as  though  she  had  been  speaking  to  herself  and  had  not 
wished  to  be  overheard. 

"Oh,  Joan!  ...  I  didn't  know  that  you  were  there!" 

"What's  the  matter?     Is  it  anything  I  can  help  about?" 

"IvTo,  dear,  nothing  .  .  .  really  I  didn't  know  that  you 
were  there." 

"'No,  but  you  must  let  me  help,  mother."  Joan  marvelled 
at  her  own  boldness  as  she  spoke. 

"It's  nothing  you  can  do,  dear." 

"But  it's  sure  to  be  something  I  can  do.  Do  you  know 
that  I've  been  home  for  months  and  months  simply  with 
the  idea  of  helping  you,  and  I'm  never  allowed  to  do  any- 
thing?" 

"Really,  Joan — I  don't  think  that's  quite  the  way  to 
speak." 

"No,  but,  mother,  it's  true.  I  want  to  help.  I'm  grown 
up.  I'm  going  to  dinner  at  the  Castle,  and  I  must  help  you, 
or — or — I  shall  go  away  and  earn  my  own  living !" 

This  last  was  so  startling  and  fantastic  that  both  Joan 
and  her  mother  stared  at  one  another  in  a  kind  of  horrified 
amazement. 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course,"  Joan  said,  hurriedly 
recovering  herself.  "But  you  must  see  that  I  must  have 
some  work  to  do." 

"I  don't  know  what  your  father  would  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Brandon,  still  bewildered. 

"Oh,  never  mind  father,"  said  Joan  quickly;  "this  is  a 
matter  just  between  you  and  me.  I'm  here  to  help  you,  and 
you  must  let  me  do  something.  ISTow,  what's  the  trouble 
to-day  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  There's  no  trouble  exactly.  Things 
are  so  difficult  just  now.  The  fact  is  that  I  promised  to  go 
to  tea  with  Miss  Burnett  this  afternoon  and  now  your 
father  wants  me  to  go  with  him  to  the  Deanery.     So  provok- 


44  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

ing!  l£isfl  Burnett  caught  me  in  the  street,  where  it'a 
always  so  difficult  to  think  of  excuses." 

"Let  me  go  to  Miss  Burnett's  instead,"  said  Joan.  "It's 
quite  time  I  took  on  some  of  the  calling  for  you.  I've  never 
Been  Ur.  Morris,  and  I  hear  he's  very  nice." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  suddenly  begin- 
ning, as  her  way  was  when  there  was  any  real  opposition,  to 
capitulate  on  all  sides  at  once.  "Suppose  you  do  go,  dear. 
I'm  sure  it's  verj*  kind  of  you.  And  you  might  take  those 
books  back  to  the  Circulating  Library  as  well.  It's  3*Iarket- 
Day.  Are  you  sure  you  won't  mind  the  horses  and  cows 
and  dogs?" 

Joan  laughed.  "I  believe  you  think  I'm  still  five  years 
old,  mother.     That's  splendid.     I'll  start  off  after  lunch." 

Joan  went  up  to  her  room,  elated.  Truly,  this  was  a  great 
step  forvv^ard.  It  occurred  to  her  on  further  reflection  that 
something  very  serious  indeed  must  be  going  on  behind  the 
scenes  to  cause  her  mother  to  give  in  so  quickly.  She  sat 
on  her  old  faded  rocking-chair,  her  hands  crossed  behind  her 
head,  thinking  it  all  out.  Did  she  once  begin  calling  on  her 
ovm  ac-count  she  w*as  grown-up  indeed.  What  would  these 
Morrises  be  like? 

She  found  now  that  she  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  fright- 
ened. Mr.  Morris  was  the  new  Rector  of  St.  James',  the 
little  church  over  by  the  cattle  market.  He  had  not  been 
in  Polchester  very  long  and  was  said  to  be  a  shy  timid  man, 
but  a  good  preacher.  He  was  a  widower,  and  his  sister- 
in-law  kept  house  for  him.  Joan  considered  further  on  the 
great  importance  of  these  concessions;  it  made  all  the  dif- 
ference to  everj'thing.  She  was  now  to  have  a  life  of  her 
own,  and  every  kind  of  adventure  and  romance  was  possible 
for  her.  She  was  suddenly  so  happy  that  she  sprang  up  and 
did  a  little  dance  round  her  room,  a  sort  of  polka,  that  be- 
came so  vehement  that  the  pictures  and  the  little  rickety 
table  rattled. 

"I'll  be  io  grown-up  at  the  i^forriscs'  this  afternoon  that 


ONE 


PEELUDE  45 


they'll  think  I've  been  calling  for  years/'  she  said  to  herself. 

She  had  need  of  all  her  courage  and  optimism  at  luncheon, 
for  it  was  a  gloomy  meal.  Only  her  father  and  mother  were 
present.    They  were  all  very  silent. 

After  lunch  she  went  upstairs,  put  on  her  hat  and  coat, 
picked  up  the  three  Library  books,  and  started  off.  It  was 
a  sunny  day,  with  shadows  chasing  one  another  across  the 
Cathedral  green.  There  was,  as  there  so  often  is  in  Pol- 
chester,  a  smell  of  the  sea  in  the  air,  cold  and  invigorating. 
She  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked  across  at  the  Cathedral. 
She  did  not  know  why,  but  she  had  been  always  afraid  of 
the  Cathedral.  She  had  never  loved  it,  and  had  always 
wished  that  they  could  go  on  Sundays  to  some  little  church 
like  St.  James'. 

For  most  of  her  conscious  life  the  Cathedral  had  hung 
over  her  with  its  dark  menacing  shadow,  forbidding  her,  as 
it  seemed  to  her,  to  be  gay  or  happy  or  careless.  To-day 
the  thought  suddenly  came  to  her,  ''That  place  is  going  to 
do  us  harm.  I  hate  it,"  and  for  a  moment  she  was  depressed 
and  uneasy;  but  when  she  came  out  from  the  Arden  Gate 
and  saw  the  High  Street  all  shining  with  the  sun,  running 
down  the  hill  into  glittering  distance,  she  was  gloriously 
cheerful  once  more.  There  the  second  wonderful  thing  that 
day  happened  to  her.  She  had  taken  scarcely  a  step  down 
the  hill  when  she  came  upon  Mrs.  Sampson.  There  was 
nothing  wonderful  about  that ;  Mrs.  Sampson,  being  the  wife 
of  a  Dean  who  was  much  more  retiring  than  he  should  be, 
was  to  be  seen  in  public  at  all  times  and  seasons,  having  to  do, 
as  it  were,  the  work  of  two  rather  than  one.  I^o,  the  won- 
derful thing  was  that  Joan  suddenly  realised  that  her  terror 
of  Mrs.  Sampson — a  terror  that  had  always  been  a  real  thorn 
in  her  flesh — was  completely  gone.  It  was  as  though  a  charm, 
an  Abracadabra,  had  been  whispered  over  Mrs.  Sampson  and 
she  had  been  changed  immediately  into  a  rabbit.  It  had 
never  been  Mrs.  Sampson's  fault  that  she  was  alarming  to 
the  young.    She  was  a  good  woman,  but  she  wa»  cursed  with 


46  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

two  sad  burdens — a  desperate  shyness  and  a  series,  unre- 
lenting, unmitigating,  mysterious,  desperate,  of  nervous 
headaches. 

Her  headaches  were  a  feature  of  Polchester  life,  and 
those  who  were  old  enough  to  understand  pitied  her  and 
offered  her  many  remedies.  But  the  young  cannot  be  ex- 
pected to  realise  that  there  can  be  anything  physically  wrong 
with  the  old,  and  Mrs.  Sampson's  sharpness  of  manner,  her 
terrifying  habit  of  rapping  out  a  "Yes"  or  a  "No,"  her 
gloomy  view  of  boisterous  habits  and  healthy  appetites,  made 
her  one  most  truly  to  be  avoided.  Before  to-day  Joan  would 
have  willingly  walked  a  mile  out  of  her  way  to  escape  her; 
to-day  she  only  saw  a  nervous,  pale-faced  little  woman  in  an 
ill-fitting  blue  dress,  for  whom  she  could  not  be  anything 
but  sorry. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Sampson." 

"Good  morning,  Joan." 

"Isn't  it  a  nice  day?" 

"It's  cold,  I  think.    Is  your  mother  well  ?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

"Give  her  my  love." 

"I  will,  Mrs.  Sampson." 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

Mrs.  Sampson's  nose,  that  would  take  on  a  blue  colour 
on  a  cold  day,  quivered,  her  thin  mouth  shut  with  a  snap, 
and  she  was  gone. 

"But  I  wasn't  afraid  of  her!"  She  was  almost  fright- 
ened at  this  new  spirit  that  had  come  to  her,  and,  feeling 
rather  that  in  another  moment  she  would  be  punished  for  her 
piratical  audacity,  she  turned  up  the  steps  into  the  Circulat- 
ing Library. 

It  was  the  custom  in  those  days  that  far  away  from  the 
dust  of  the  grimy  shelves,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  room, 
there  was  a  table  with  all  the  latest  works  of  fiction  in  their 
gaudy  bindings,  a  few  volumes  of  poetry  an  J  a  few  memoirs. 


ONE  PKELUDE  47 

Close  to  this  table  Miss  Milton  sat,  wrapped,  in  the  warm- 
est weather,  in  a  thick  shawl  and  knitting  endless  stock- 
ings. She  hated  children,  myself  in  particular.  She  was 
also  a  Snob  of  the  Snobs,  and  thanked  God  on  her  knees 
every  night  for  Lady  St.  Leath,  Mrs.  Combermere  and  Mrs. 
Sampson,  by  whose  graces  she  was  left  in  her  present  position. 

Joan  was  still  too  near  childhood  to  be  considered  very 
seriously,  and  it  was  well  known  that  her  father  did  not 
take  her  very  seriously  either.  She  was  always,  therefore, 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  entered  the  Library,  snubbed 
by  Miss  Milton.  It  must  be  confessed  that  to-day,  in  spite 
of  her  success  with  Mrs.  Sampson,  she  was  nervous.  She 
was  nervous  partly  because  she  hated  Miss  Milton's  red 
rimmed  eyes,  and  never  looked  at  them  if  she  could  help  it, 
but,  in  the  main,  because  she  knew  that  her  mother  was  re- 
turning the  Library  books  too  quickly,  and  had,  moreover, 
insisted  that  she  should  ask  for  Mr.  Barrie's  Sentimental 
Tommy  and  Mr.  Seton  Merriman's  The  Sowers,  both  of  them 
books  that  had  been  asked  for  for  weeks  and  as  steadily  and 
persistently  refused. 

Joan  knew  what  Miss  Milton  would  say,  "That  they  might 
be  in  next  week,  but  that  she  couldn't  be  sure."  Was  Joan 
strong  enough  now,  in  her  new-found  glory,  to  fight  for 
them?     She  did  not  know. 

She  advanced  to  the  table  smiling.  Miss  Milton  did  not 
look  up,  but  continued  to  knit  one  of  her  horrible  stockings. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Milton.  Mother  has  sent  back 
these  books.     They  were  not  quite  what  she  wanted." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that."  Miss  Milton  took  the  books  into 
her  chilblained  protectiDn.  "It's  a  little  difficult,  I  must  say, 
to  know  what  Mrs.  Brandon  prefers." - 

"Well,  there's  Sentimental  Tommy"  began  Joan. 

But  Miss  Milton  was  an  old  general. 

"Oh,  that's  out,  I'm  afraid.  Now,  here's  a  sweetly  pretty 
book — Roger  Vanbrugh's  Wife,  by  Adeline  Sergeant.  It's 
only  just  out.  .  .    " 


48  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Or  there's  The  Sowers/'  said  Joan,  caught  against  her 
will  by  the  red-rimmed  eyes  and  staring  at  them. 

"Oh,  that's  out,  I'm  afraid.  There  arc  several  books 
here " 

"You  promised  mother,"  said  Joan,  "that  she  should  have 
Sentimental  Tommy  this  week.  You  promised  her  a  month 
ago.  It's  about  time  that  mother  had  a  book  that  she  cares 
for." 

"Really,"  said  Miss  Milton,  wide-eyed  at  Joan's  audacity. 
**You  seem  to  be  charging  me  with  some  remissness,  Miss 
Brandon.  If  you  have  any  complaint,  I'm  sure  the  Li- 
brary Committee  will  attend  to  it.  It's  to  them  I  have  to 
answer.  When  the  book  is  in  you  shall  have  it.  I  can 
promise  no  more.     I  am  only  human." 

"You  have  said  that  now  for  three  months,"  said  Joan, 
beginning,  to  her  own  surprised  delight,  to  be  angry. 
"Surely  the  last  reader  hasn't  been  three  months  over  it. 
I  thought  subscribers  were  only  allowed  to  keep  a  book  a 
week." 

Miss  Milton's  crimson  colouring  turned  to  a  deep  purple. 

"The  book  is  out,"  she  said.  "Both  books  are  out.  They 
are  in  great  demand.    I  have  no  more  to  say." 

The  Library  door  opened,  and  a  young  man  came  in. 
Joan  was  still  too  young  to  wish  for  scenes  in  public.  She 
must  give  up  the  battle  for  to-day.  When,  however,  she 
saw  who  it  was  she  blushed.  It  was  young  Lord  St.  Leath 
— Johnny  St.  Leath,  as  he  was  known  to  his  familiars,  who 
were  many  and  of  all  sorts  and  conditions.  Joan  hated  her- 
self for  blushing,  especially  before  the  odious  Miss  Milton, 
but  there  was  a  reason.  One  day  in  last  October  after 
morning  service  Joan  and  her  mother  had  waited  in  the 
Cloisters  to  avoid  a  shower  of  rain,  St.  Leath  had  also 
waited  and  very  pleasantly  had  talked  to  them  both.  There 
was  nothing  very  alarming  in  this,  but  as  the  rain  cleared 
and  Mrs.  Brandon  had  moved  forward  across  the  Green, 
he  had  suddenly,  with  a  confusion  that  had  seemed  to  her 


ONE  PEELUDE  49 

charming,  asked  Joan  whether  one  day  they  mightn't  meet 
again.  He  had  given  her  one  look  straight  in  the  eyes, 
tried  to  say  something  more,  failed,  and  turned  away  down 
the  Cloisters. 

Joan  had  never  before  been  asked  by  any  young  man  to 
meet  him  again.  She  had  told  herself  that  this  was  noth- 
ing but  the  merest,  most  obvious  politeness;  nevertheless 
the  look  that  he  had  given  her  remained. 

Now,  as  she  saw  him  advancing  towards  her,  there  was 
the  thought,  was  it  not  on  that  very  morning  that  her  new 
courage  and  self-confidence  had  come  to  her?  The  thought 
was  so  absurd  that  she  flung  it  at  Miss  Milton.  But  the 
blush  remained. 

Johnny  was  an  ungainly  young  man,  with  a  red  face, 
freckles,  a  large  mouth,  and  a  bull-terrier — a  conventional 
British  type,  I  suppose,  saved,  nevertheless,  from  conven- 
tionality by  his  affection  for  his  three  plain  sisters,  his  de- 
termination to  see  things  as  they  were,  and  his  sense  of 
humour,  the  last  of  these  something  quite  his  own,  and  al- 
ways appearing  in  unexpected  places.  The  bull-terrier,  in 
spite  of  the  notice  on  the  Library  door  that  no  dogs  were 
admitted,  advanced  breathlessly  and  dribbling  with  excite- 
ment for  Miss  Milton's  large  black  felt  slippers. 

"Here,  Andrew,  old  man.  Heel !  Heel !"  said  Johnny. 
Andrew,  however,  quite  naturally  concluded  that  this  was 
only  an  approval  of  his  intentions,  and  there  might  have 
followed  an  awkward  scene  had  his  master  not  caught  him 
by  the  collar  and  held  him  suspended  in  mid-air,  to  his  own 
indignant  surprise  and  astonishment. 

Joan  laughed,  and  Miss  Milton,  quivering  between  in- 
dignation, fear  and  snobbery,  dropped  the  stocking  that  she 
was  knitting. 

Andrew  burst  from  his  mastec's  clutches,  rushed  the 
stocking  into  the  farthest  recesses  of  the  Library,  and  pro- 
ceeded there  to  enjoy  it. 

Johnny  apologised. 


60  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Oh,  it's  quite  all  right,  Lord  St  Leath,"  said  Miss  Mil- 
ton.    "What  a  fine  animal !" 

"Yes,  he  is,"  said  Johnny,  rescuing  the  stocking.  "He's 
as  strong  as  Lucifer.  Here,  Andrew,  you  devil,  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  your  body." 

During  this  little  scene  Johnny  had  smiled  at  Joan,  and 
in  so  pleasant  a  way  that  she  was  compelled  to  smile  back 
at  him. 

"How  do  you  do.  Miss  Brandon  ?"  He  had  recalled  An- 
drew now,  and  the  dog  was  slobbering  happily  at  his  feet. 
"Jolly  day,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Joan,  and  stood  there  awkwardly,  feeling 
that  she  ought  to  go  but  not  knowing  quite  how  to  do  so. 
He  also  seemed  embarrassed,  and  turned  abruptly  to  Miss 
Milton. 

"I  say,  look  here.  .  .  .  Mother  asked  me  to  come  in  and 
get  that  book  you  promised  her.  What's  the  name  of  the 
thing?  .  .  .  I've  got  it  written  down." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  bit  of  paper. 

"Here  it  is.  Sentimental  Tommy,  by  a  man  called  Barria 
Silly  name,  but  mother's  always  reading  the  most  awful 
stuff." 

Joan  turned  towards  Miss  Milton. 

"How  funny !"  she  said.  "That's  the  boqjc  I've  just  been 
asking  for.     It's  out." 

Miss  Milton's  face  was  a  curious  purple. 

"Well,  that's  odd,"  said  Johnny.  "Mother  told  me  that 
you'd  sent  her  a  line  to  say  it  was  in  whenever  she  sent 
for  it." 

"It's  been  out  three  months,"  said  Joan,  staring  now 
straight  into  Miss  Milton's  angry  eyes. 

"I've  been  keeping  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Milton.  "That  is, 
there's  a  special  copy.  .  .  .  Lady  St.  Leath  specially 
asked " 

"Is  it  in,  or  isn't  it?"  asked  Johnny. 

"There  is  a  copy,  Lord  St.  Leath "     With  confused 


ONE  PKELTJDE  51 

fingers  Miss  Milton  searched  in  a  drawer.  Slie  produced 
the  book. 

"You  told  me,"  said  Joan,  forgetting  now  in  her  anger 
St.  Leath  and  all  the  world,  "that  there  wouldn't  be  a  copy 
for  weeks.  If  you'd  told  me  you  were  keeping  one  for 
Lady  St.  Leath,  that  would  have  been  different.  You 
shouldn't  have  told  me  a  lie." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Johnny,  opening  his  eyes 
very  widely  indeed,  "that  you  refused  this  copy  to  Miss 
Brandon  ?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Miss  Milton,  breathing  very  hard  as 
though  she  had  been  running  a  long  distance.  "I  was  keep- 
ing it  for  your  mother." 

"Well,  I'm  damned,"  said  Johnny.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
Miss  Brandon,  .  .  .  but  I  never  heard  such  a  thing.  Does 
my  mother  pay  a  larger  subscription  than  other  people?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then  what  right  had  you  to  tell  Miss  Brandon  a  lie?" 

Miss  Milton,  in  spite  of  long  training  in  the  kind  of  war- 
fare attaching,  of  necessity,  to  Circulating  Libraries,  was 
very  near  to  tears — also  murder.  She  would  have  been  de- 
lighted to  pierce  Joan's  heart  with  a  bright  stiletto,  had  such 
a  weapon  been  handy.  She  saw  the  softest,  easiest,  idlest  job 
in  the  world  slipping  out  of  her  fingers;  she  saw  herself,  a 
desolate  and  haggard  virgin,  begging  her  bread  on  the  Pol- 
chester  streets.  She  saw  .  .  .  but  never  mind  her  visions. 
They  were  terrible  ones.  She  had  recourse  to  her  only 
defence. 

"If  I  have  misunderstood  my  duty,"  she  said  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  "there  is  the  Library  Committee." 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Joan  whose  anger  had  disap- 
peared. "It  doesn't  matter  a  bit.  We'll  have  the  book 
after  Lady  St.  Leath." 

"Indeed  you  won't,"  said  Johnny,  seizing  the  volume  and 
forcing  it  upon  Joan.  "Mother  can  wait.  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing."    He  turned  fiercely  upon  Miss  Milton.    "My 


62  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

mother  shall  know  exactly  what  has  happened.  I'm  sure 
she'd  be  horrified  if  she  understood  that  you  were  keeping 
books  from  other  subscribers  in  order  that  she  might  have 
them.  .  .  .  Good  afternoon." 

He  strode  from  the  room.     At  the  door  he  paused. 

"Can   I Shall  we Are  you  going  dovsTi  the 

High  Street,  Miss  Brandon?" 

"Yes,"  said  Joan.  They  went  out  of  the  room  and  down 
the  Library  steps  together. 

In  the  shiny,  sunny  street  they  paused.  The  dark  cob- 
webs of  the  Library  hung  behind  Joan's  consciousness  like 
the  sudden  breaking  of  a  mischievous  spell. 

She  was  so  happy  that  she  could  have  embraced  Andrew, 
who  was,  however,  already  occupied  with  the  distant  aura 
of  a  white  poodle  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

Johnny  was  driven  by  the  impulse  of  his  indignation 
down  the  hill.     Joan,  rather  breathlessly,  followed  him. 

"I  say!"  said  Johnny.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a 
woman !  She  ought  to  be  poisoned.  She  ought  indeed.  !No, 
poisoning's  too  good  for  her.  Hung,  drawn  and  quartered. 
That's  what  she  ought  to  be.  She'll  get  into  trouble  over 
that" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Joan.  "Please,  Lord  St.  Leath,  don't  say 
any  more  about  it.  She  has  a  difficult  time,  I  expect,  every- 
body wanting  the  same  books.  After  all  a  promise  is  a 
promise." 

"But  she'd  promised  your  mother " 

"Xo,  she  never  really  did.  She  always  said  that  it  would 
be  in  in  a  day  or  two.  She  never  properly  promised.  I 
expect  we'd  have  had  it  next." 

"The  snob,  the  rotten  snob!"  Johnny  paused  and  raised 
his  stick.  "I  hate  women  like  that.  No,  she's  not  doing 
her  job  properly.     She  oughtn't  to  be  there." 

So  swift  had  been  their  descent  that  they  arrived  in  a 
moment  at  the  market 

Because  to-day  was  market-day  there  was  a  fine  noise, 


oiTB  PKELUDE  53 

confusion  and  splendour — carts  rattling  in  and  out,  sheep 
and  cows  driven  hither  and  thither,  the  wooden  stalls  bright 
with  flowers  and  vegetables,  the  dim  arcades  looming  be- 
hind the  square  filled  with  mysterious  riches.  They  could 
not  talk  very  much  here,  and  Joan  was  glad.  She  was  too 
deeply  excited  to  talk.  At  one  moment  St.  Leath  took  her 
arm  to  guide  her  past  a  confused  mob  of  bewildered  sheep. 
The  Glebeshire  peasant  on  marketing-day  has  plenty  of  con- 
versation. Old  wrinkled  women,  stout  red-faced  farmers, 
boys  and  girls  all  shouted  together,  and  above  the  scene  the 
light  driving  clouds  flung  their  transparent  shadows,  like 
weaving  shuttles  across  the  sun. 

"Oh,  do  let's  stop  here  a  moment,"  said  Joan,  peering  into 
one  of  the  arcades.  "I've  always  loved  this  one  all  my  life. 
I've  never  been  able  to  resist  it." 

This  was  the  Toy  Arcade,  now,  I'm  afraid,  gone  the  way 
of  so  many  other  romantic  things.  It  had  been  to  all  of  us 
the  most  wonderful  spot  in  Polchester  from  the  very  earliest 
days,  this  partly  because  of  the  toys  themselves,  partly  be- 
cause it  was  the  densest  and  darkest  of  all  the  Arcades,  never 
utterly  to  be  pierced  by  our  youthful  eyes,  partly  because 
only  two  doors  away  were  the  sinister  rooms  of  Mr.  Daw- 
son, the  dentist.  Here  not  only  was  there  every  kind  of  toy 
— dolls,  soldiers,  horses,  carts,  games,  tops,  hoops,  dogs,  ele- 
phants— but  also  sweets — chocolates,  jujubes,  caramels,  and 
the  best  sweet  in  the  whole  world,  the  Polchester  Bull's-eye. 

They  went  in  together.  Mrs.  Magnet,  now  with  God,  an 
old  woman  like  a  berry,  always  in  a  bonnet  with  green 
flowers,  smiled  and  bobbed.  The  colours  of  the  toys  jumbled 
against  the  dark  walls  were  like  patterns  in  a  carpet. 

"What  do  you  say.  Miss  Brandon?"  said  Johnny.  "If  I 
give  you  a  toy  will  you  give  me  one  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Joan,  afraid  a  little  of  Mrs.  Magnet's  piercing 
black  eye. 

"You're  not  to  see  what  I  get.  Turn  your  back  a  mo- 
ment." 


64  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Joan  turned  around.  As  she  waited  shp  could  hear  the 
"Hie !  .  .  .  Hie !  Woah !"  of  the  market-cries,  the  bleating 
of  the  sheep,  the  lowing  of  a  cow. 

"Here  you  are,  then."  She  turned.  He  presented  her 
with  a  Japanese  doll,  gay  in  a  pink  cotton  frock,  his  waist 
girdled  with  a  sash  of  gold  tissue. 

"Now  you  turn  your  back,"  she  said. 

In  a  kind  of  happy  desperation  she  seized  a  nigger  with 
bold  red  checks,  a  white  jacket  and  crimson  trousers. 

Mrs.  Magnet  wrapped  the  presents  up.  They  paid,  and 
walked  out  into  the  sun  again. 

"I'll  keep  that  doll,"  said  Johnny,  "just  as  long  as  you 
keep  yours." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Joan  hurriedly.  "I've  got  to  call  at  a 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  market.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

She  felt  the  pressure  of  his  hand  on  hers,  then,  clutching 
her  parcel,  hurried,  almost  ran,  indeed,  through  the  market- 
stalls.     She  did  not  look  back. 

When  she  had  crossed  the  Square  she  turned  down  into 
a  little  side  street.  The  plan  of  Polchester  is  very  simple. 
It  is  built,  as  it  were,  on  the  side  of  a  rock,  running  finally 
to  a  flat  top,  on  which  is  the  Cathedral.  Down  the  side  of 
the  rock  there  are  broad  ledges,  and  it  is  on  one  of  those  that 
the  market-place  is  built.  At  the  bottom  of  the  rock  lies  the 
jumble  of  cottages  known  most  erroneously  as  Seatown,  and 
round  the  rock  runs  the  river  Pol,  slipping  away  at  last 
through  woods  and  hills  and  valleys  into  the  sea.  At  high 
tide  you  can  go  all  the  way  by  river  to  the  sea,  and  in  the 
sunmaer,  this  makes  a  pleasant  and  beautiful  excursion.  It 
is  because  *of  this  that  Seatown  has,  perhaps,  some  right  to 
its  name,  because  in  one  way  and  another  sailors  collect  in 
the  cottages  and  at  the  "Dog  and  Pilchard,"  that  pleasant 
and  democratic  hostelry  of  which,  in  1897,  Samuel  Hogg  was 
landlord.  Many  visitors  have  been  known  to  declare  that 
Seatown  was  "too  sweet  for  anything,"  and  that  "it  would 
be  really  wicked  to  knock  do\vn  the  ducks  of  cottages,"  but 


ONE  PRELUDE  55 

"the  ducks  of  cottages"  were  the  foulest  and  most  insanitary 
dwelling-places  in  the  south  of  England,  and  it  has  always 
been  to  me  amazing  that  the  Polchester  Town  Council  al- 
lowed them  to  stand  so  long  as  they  did.  In  1902,  as  all 
the  Glebeshire  world  knows,  there  was  the  great  battle  of 
Seatown,  ending  in  the  cottages'  destruction.  In  1897  those 
evil  dwelling-places  gloried  in  their  full  magnificence  of 
sweet  corrliption,  nor  did  the  periodical  attacks  of  typhoid 
alarm  in  the  least  the  citizens  of  the  Upper  Town.  Once 
and  again  gentlemen  from  other  parts  paid  mysterious  of- 
ficial visits,  but  we  had  ways,  in  old  times,  of  dealing  with 
inquisitive  meddlers  from  the  outside  world. 

Because  the  market-place  was  half-way  down  the  Rock, 
and  because  the  Rectory  of  St.  James'  was  just  below  the 
market-place,  the  upper  windows  of  that  house  commanded 
a  wonderful  view  both  of  the  hill,  High  Street  and  Cathe- 
dral above  it,  and  of  Seatown,  river  and  woods  below  it.  It 
was  said  that  it  was  up  this  very  rocky  street  from  the  river, 
through  the  market,  and  up  the  High  Street  that  the  armed 
enemies  of  the  Black  Bishop  had  fought  their  way  to  the 
Cathedral  on  that  great  day  when  the  Bishop  had  gone  to 
meet  his  God,  and  a  piece  of  rock  is  still  shown  to  innocent 
visitors  as  the  place  whence  some  of  his  enemies,  in  full 
armour,  were  flung  down,  many  thousand  feet,  to  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Pol. 

Joan  had  often  longed  to  see  the  view  from  the  windows 
of  St.  James'  Rectory,  but  she  had  not  known  old  Dr.  Bur- 
roughs, the  former  Rector,  a  cross  man  with  gout  and  rheu- 
matism. She  walked  up  some  steps  and  found  the  house 
the  last  of  three  all  squeezed  together  on  the  edge  of  the  hill. 
The  Rectory,  because  it  was  the  last,  stood  square  to  all  the 
winds  of  heaven,  and  Joan  fancied  what  it  must  be  in  wild 
wintry  weather.  Soon  she  was  in  the  drawing-room  shaking 
hands  with  Miss  Burnett,  who  was  Mr.  Morris'  sister-in- 
law,  and  kept  house  for  him. 

Miss  Burnett  was  a  stout  negative  woman,  whose  whole 


66  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

mind  was  absorbed  in  the  business  of  housekeeping,  prices 
of  food,  wickedness  and  ingratitude  of  servants,  malicious- 
ness of  shopkeepers  and  so  on.  The  house,  with  all  her  man- 
aging, was  neither  tidy  nor  clean,  as  Joan  quickly  saw ;  Miss 
Burnett  was  not,  by  temperament,  methodical,  nor  had  she 
ever  received  any  education.  Her  mind,  so  far  as  a  per- 
ception of  the  outside  world  and  its  history  went,  was  some 
way  behind  that  of  a  Hottentot  or  a  South  Sea  Islander.  She 
had,  from  the  day  of  her  birth,  been  told  by  every  one  around 
her  that  she  was  stupid,  and,  after  a  faint  struggle,  she 
had  acquiesced  in  that  judgment.  She  knew  that  her  younger 
sister,  afterwards  Mrs.  Morris,  was  pretty  and  accomplished, 
and  that  she  would  never  be  either  of  those  things.  She 
was  not  angry  nor  jealous  at  this.  The  note  of  her  charac- 
ter was  acquiescence,  and  when  Agatha  had  died  of  pleurisy 
it  had  seemed  the  natural  thing  for  her  to  come  and  keep 
house  for  the  distressed  widower.  If  Mr.  Morris  had  since 
regretted  the  arrangement  he  had,  at  any  rate,  never  said  so. 

Miss  Burnett's  method  of  conversation  was  to  say  some- 
thing about  the  weather  and  then  to  lapse  into  a  surprised 
and  distressed  stare.  If  her  visitor  made  some  statement 
she  crowTied  it  with,  "Well,  now,  that  was  just  was  I  was 
going  to  say." 

Her  nose,  when  she  talked,  twinkled  at  the  nostrils  ap- 
prehensively, and  many  of  her  visitors  found  this  fascinat- 
ing, so  that  they  suddenly,  with  hot  confusion,  realised  that 
they  too  had  been  staring  in  a  most  offensive  manner. 
Joan  had  not  been  out  in  the  world  long  enough  to  enable 
her  to  save  a  difficult  situation  by  brilliant  talk,  and  she 
very  quickly  found  herself  staring  at  Miss  Burnett's  nose 
and  longing  to  say  something  about  it,  as,  for  instance, 
"What  a  stronge  nose  you've  got.  Miss  Burnett — see  how 
it  twitches!"  or,  "If  you'll  allow  me.  Miss  Burnett,  I'd  just 
like  to  study  your  nose  for  a  minute."  When  she  realised 
this  horrible  desire  in  herself  she  blushed  crimson  and  gazed 
about  the  untidy  and  entangled  drawing-room  in  real  des- 


ONE 


PKELUDE  57 


peration.  She  could  see  nothing  in  the  room  that  was  likely 
to  save  her.  She  was  about  to  rise  and  depart,  although  she 
had  only  been  there  five  minutes,  when  Mr.  Morris  came  in. 

Joan  realised  at  once  that  this  man  was  quite  diiferent 
from  any  one  whom  she  had  ever  known.  He  was  a  stranger 
to  her  Polchester  world  in  body,  soul  and  spirit,  as  though, 
a  foreigner  from  some  far-distant  country,  he  had  been 
shipwrecked  and  cast  upon  an  inhospitable  shore.  So 
strangely  did  she  feel  this  that  she  was  quite  surprised 
when  he  did  not  speak  with  a  foreign  accent.  "Oh,  he  must 
be  a  poet!"  was  her  second  thought  about  Mr.  Morris,  not 
because  he  dressed  oddly  or  had  long  hair.  She  could  not 
tell  whence  the  impression  came,  unless  it  were  in  his  strange, 
bewildered,  lost  blue  eyes.  Lost,  bewildered — yes,  that  was 
what  he  was!  With  every  movement  of  his  slim,  straight 
body,  the  impulse  with  which  he  brushed  back  his  untidy  fair 
hair  from  his  forehead,  he  seemed  like  a  man  only  just 
awake,  a  man  needing  care  and  protection,  because  he  sim- 
ply would  not  be  able  to  look  after  himself.  So  ridiculously 
did  she  have  this  impression  that  she  almost  cried  "Look 
out !"  when  he  moved  forward,  as  though  he  would  certainly 
knock  himself  against  a  chair  or  a  table. 

"How  strange,"  she  thought,  "that  this  man  should  live 
with  Miss  Burnett !  What  does  he  think  of  her  ?"  She  was 
excited  by  her  discovery  of  him,  but  that  meant  very  little, 
because  just  now  she  was  being  excited  by  everything.  She 
found  at  once  that  talking  to  him  was  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world.  Mr.  Morris  did  not  say  very  much;  he  smiled 
gently,  and  when  Miss  Burnett,  awaking  suddenly  from  her 
torpor,  said,  "You'll  have  some  tea.  Miss  Brandon,  won't 
you?"  he,  smiling,  softly  repeated  the  invitation. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Joan.  "I  will.  How  strange  it  is," 
she  went  on,  "that  you  are  so  close  to  the  market  and,  even 
on  market-day,  you  don't  hear  a  sound !" 

And  it  was  strange!  as  though  the  house  were  bewitched 


68  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

and  had  suddenly,  even  as  Joan  entered  it,  gathered  around 
it  a  dark  wood  for  its  protection. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Morris.  "We  found  it  strange  at  first. 
But  it's  because  we  are  the  last  house,  and  the  three  others 
protect  us.  We  get  the  wind  and  rain,  though.  You  should 
hear  this  place  in  a  storm.  But  the  house  is  strong  enough ; 
it's  very  stoutly  built ;  not  a  board  creaks  in  the  wildest 
weather.  Only  the  windows  rattle  and  the  wind  comes 
roaring  down  the  chimneys." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  asked  Joan. 

"Nearly  a  year — and  we  still  feel  strangers.  We  were 
near  Ashford  in  Kent  for  twelve  years,  and  the  Glebeshire 
people  are  very  different." 

"Well,"  said  Joan,  who  was  a  little  irritated  because  she 
felt  that  his  voice  was  a  little  sadder  than  it  ought  to  be, 
"I  think  you'll  like  Polchester.  I'm  sure  you  will.  And 
you've  come  in  a  good  year,  too.  There's  sure  to  be  a  lot 
going  on  this  year  because  of  the  Jubilee." 

Mr.  Morris  did  not  seem  to  be  as  thrilled  as  he  should  be 
by  the  thought  of  the  Jubilee,  so  Joan  went  on: 

"It's  so  lucky  for  us  that  it  comes  just  at  the  Polchester 
Feast  time.  We  always  have  a  tremendous  week  at  the 
Feast — the  Horticultural  Show  and  a  Ball  in  the  Assembly 
Rooms,  and  all  sorts  of  things.  It's  going  to  be  my  first 
ball  this  year,  although  I've  really  come  out  already."  She 
laughed.  "Festivities  start  to-morrow  with  the  arrival  of 
Marquis." 

"Marquis?"  repeated  Mr.  Morris  politely. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  Marquis  ?  His  is  the  greatest  Cir- 
cus in  England.  He  comes  to  Polchester  every  year,  and 
they  have  a  procession  through  the  town — elephants  and 
camels,  and  Britannia  in  her  chariot,  and  sometimes  a  cage 
with  the  lions  and  the  tigers.  Last  year  they  had  the  sweet- 
est little  ponies — four  of  them,  no  higher  than  St.  Bernards 
— and  there  are  the  clowns  too,  and  a  band." 

She  was  suddenly  afraid  that  she  was  talking  too  much — 


ONE 


PRELUDE  59 


silly  too,  in  her  childisli  enthusiasms.  She  remembered 
that  she  was  in  reality  deputising  for  her  mother,  who  would 
never  have  talked  about  the  Circus.  Fortunately  at  that 
moment  the  tea  came  in;  it  was  brought  by  a  flushed  and 
contemptuous  maid,  who  put  the  tray  down  on  a  little  table 
with  a  bang,  tossed  her  head  as  though  she  despised  them  all, 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  her. 

Miss  Burnett  was  upset  by  this,  and  her  nose  twitched  more 
violently  than  ever.  Joan  saw  that  her  hand  trembled  as 
she  poured  out  the  tea,  and  she  was  at  once  sorry  for  her. 

Mr.  Morris  talked  about  Kent  and  London,  and  tea  was 
drunk  and  the  saffron  cake  praised,  and  Joan  thought  it 
was  time  to  go.  At  the  last,  however,  she  turned  to  Mr. 
Morris  and  said: 

"Do  you  like  the  Cathedral?" 

"It's  wonderful,"  he  answered.  "You  should  see  it  from 
our  window  upstairs." 

"Oh,  I  hate  it "  said  Joan. 

"Why?"  Morris  asked  her. 

There  was  a  curious  challenge  in  his  voice.  They  were 
both  standing  facing  one  another. 

"I  suppose  that's  a  silly  thing  to  say.  Only  you  don't 
live  as  close  to  it  as  we  do,  and  you  haven't  lived  here  so 
long  as  we  have.  It  seems  to  hang  right  over  you,  and  it 
never  changes,,  and  I  hate  to  think  it  will  go  on  just  the 
same,  years  after  we're  dead." 

"Have  you  seen  the  view  from  our  window?"  Morris 
asked  her. 

"No,"  said  Joan,  "I  was  never  in  this  house  before." 

"Come  and  see  it,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Miss  Burnett  heavily,  "Miss  Brandon 
doesn't  want  to  be  bothered — when  she's  seen  the  Cathedral 
all  her  life,  too." 

"Of  course  I'd  love  to  see  it,"  said  Joan,  laughing.  "To 
tell  you  the  truth,  that's  what  I've  always  wanted.    I  looked 


60  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

at  this  house  again  and  again  when  old  Canon  Burroughs 
was  here,  and  thought  there  must  be  a  wonderful  view." 

She  said  good-bye  to  Miss  Burnett. 

"My  mother  does  hope  you  will  soon  come  and  see  us," 
ahe  said. 

"I  have  just  met  Mrs.  Brandon  for  a  moment  at  Mrs. 
Combermere's,"  said  Mr.  Morris.  "We'll  be  very  glad  to 
come." 

She  went  out  with  him. 

"It's  up  these  stairs,"  he  said.  "Two  flights.  I  hope 
you  don't  mind." 

They  climbed  on  to  the  second  landing.  At  the  end  of 
the  passage  there  was  a  window.  The  evening  was  grey 
and  only  little  faint  wisps  of  blue  still  lingered  above  the 
dusk,  but  the  white  sky  threw  up  the  Cathedral  towers, 
now  black  and  sharp-edged  in  magnificent  relief.  Truly  it 
was  a  view ! 

The  window  was  in  such  a  position  that  through  it  you 
gazed  behind  the  neighbouring  houses,  above  some  low  roofs, 
straight  up  the  twisting  High  Street  to  the  Cathedral.  The 
great  building  seemed  to  be  perched  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
rock,  almost,  you  felt,  swinging  in  mid-air,  and  that  so  pre- 
cariously that  with  one  push  of  the  finger  you  might  send 
it  staggering  into  space.  Joan  had  never  seen  it  so  domi- 
nating, so  commanding,  so  fierce  in  its  disregard  of  the  tiny 
clustered  world  beneath  it,  so  near  to  the  stars,  so  majestic 
and  alone. 

"Yes — it's  wonderful,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  but  you  should  see  it,"  he  cried,  "as  it  can  be.  It's 
dull  to-day,  the  sky's  grey  and  there's  no  sunset, — but  when 
it's  flaming  red  with  all  the  windows  shining,  or  when  all 
the  stars  are  out  or  in  moonlight  .  .  .  it's  like  a  great  ship 
sometimes,  and  sometimes  like  a  cloud,  and  sometimes  like  a 
fiery  palace.  Sometimes  it's  in  mist  and  you  can  only  see 
just  the  top  of  the  towers.  .  .  ." 


OTSTE 


PRELUDE  61 


"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Joan,  turning  away.  "It  doesn't 
care  what  happens  to  us." 

"Why  should  it  ?"  he  answered.  "Think  of  all  it's  seen — 
the  battles  and  the  fights  and  the  plunder — and  it  doesn't 
care!  We  can  do  what  we  like  and  it  will  remain  just  the 
same." 

"People  could  come  and  knock  it  down,"  Joan  said. 

"I  believe  it  would  still  be  there  if  they  did.  The  rock 
would  be  there  and  the  spirit  of  the  Cathedral.  .  .  .  What 
do  people  matter  beside  a  thing  like  that?  Why,  we're 
ants  ...    !" 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

"You'll  think  me  foolish,  Miss  Brandon,"  he  said.     "You 

have  known  the  Cathedral  so  long "     He  paused.     "I 

think  I  know  what  you  mean  about  fearing  it " 

He  saw  her  to  the  door. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  smiling.     "Come  again." 

"I  like  him,"  she  thought  as  she  walked  away.  What  a 
splendid  day  she  had  had ! 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE   IMPERTINENT    ELEPHANT 


ARCHDEACON  BRANDON  had  surmounted  with  sur- 
prising celerity  the  shock  of  Falk's  unexpected  return. 
He  was  helped  to  this  firstly  by  his  confident  belief  in  a 
God  who  had  him  especially  in  His  eye  and  would,  on  no 
account,  do  him  any  harm.  As  God  had  decided  that  Falk 
had  better  leave  Oxford,  it  was  foolish  to  argue  that  it  would 
have  been  wiser  for  him  to  stay  there.  Secondly,  he  was 
helped  by  his  own  love  for,  and  pride  in,  his  son.  The  inde- 
pendence and  scorn  that  were  so  large  a  part  of  Falk's  na- 
ture were  after  his  own  heart.  He  might  fight  and  oppose 
them  (he  often  did),  but  always  behind  the  contest  there 
was  appreciation  and  approbation.  That  was  the  way  for 
a  son  of  his  to  treat  the  world — to  snap  his  fingers  at  it! 
The  natural  thing  to  do,  the  good  old  world  being  as  stupid 
as  it  was.  Thirdly,  he  was  helped  by  his  family  pride.  It 
took  him  only  ^  night's  reflection  to  arrive  at  the  decision 
that  Falk  had  been  entirely  right  in  this  affair  and  Oxford 
entirely  in  the  wrong.  Two  days  after  Falk's  return  he  wrote 
(without  saying  anything  to  the  boy)  Falk's  tutor  a  very 
warm  letter,  pointing  out  that  he  was  sure  the  tutor  would 
agree  with  him  that  a  little  more  tact  and  diplomacy  might 
have  prevented  so  unfortunate  an  issue.  It  was  not  for 
him,  Brandon,  to  suggest  that  the  authorities  in  Oxford 
were  perhaps  a  little  behind  the  times,  a  little  out  of  the 
world.  Nevertheless  it  was  probably  true  that  long  reei- 
denco  in  Oxford  had  hindered  the  aforesaid  authorities  from 
realising  the  trend  of  the  day,  from  appreciating  the  new 

82 


.    PRELUDE  63 

spirit  of  independence  that  was  growing  up  in  our  younger 
generation.  It  seemed  obvious  to  him,  Archdeacon  Brandon, 
that  you  could  no  longer  treat  men  of  Falk's  age  and  charac- 
ter as  mere  boys  and,  although  he  was  quite  sure  that  the 
authorities  at  Oxford  had  done  their  best,  he  nevertheless 
hoped  that  this  unfortunate  episode  would  enable  them  to  see 
that  we  were  not  now  living  in  the  Middle  Ages,  but  rather 
in  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  may  seem  to 
some  a  little  ironical  that  the  Archdeacon,  who  was  the  most 
conservative  soul  alive,  should  write  thus  to  one  of  the  most 
conservative  of  our  institutions,  but — "Before  Oxford  the 
Brandons  were.  .  .  ." 

What  the  tutor  remarked  when  he  read  this  letter  is  not 
recorded.  Brandon  said  nothing  to  Falk  about  all  this.  In- 
deed, during  the  first  weeks  after  Talk's  return  he  preserved 
a  stem  and  dignified  silence.  After  all,  the  boy  must  learn 
that  authority  was  authority,  and  he  prided  himself  that  he 
knew,  better  than  any  number  of  Oxford  Dons,  how  to  train 
and  educate  the  young.  Nevertheless  light  broke  through. 
Some  of  Talk's  jokes  were  so  good  that  his  father,  who  had 
a  real  sense  of  fun  if  only  a  slight  sense  of  humour,  was 
bound  to  laugh.  Very  soon  father  and  son  resumed  their 
old  relations  of  sudden  tempers  and  mutual  admiration, 
and  a  strange,  rather  pathetic,  quite  uneloquent  love  that 
was  none  the  less  real  because  it  was,  on  either  side,  com- 
pletely selfish. 

But  there  was  a  fourth  reason  why  Falk's  return  caused  so 
slight  a  storm.  That  reason  was  that  the  Archdeacon  was 
now  girding  up  his  loins  before  he  entered  upon  one  of  his 
famous  campaigns.  There  had  been  many  campaigns  in 
the  past.  Campaigns  were  indeed  as  truly  the  breath  of  the 
Archdeacon's  nostrils  as  they  had  been  once  of  the  great 
N^apoleon's — and  in  every  one  of  them  had  the  Archdeacon 
been  victorious. 

This  one  was  to  be  the  greatest  of  them  all,  and  was  to  set 
the  sign  and  seal  upon  the  whole  of  his  career. 


64  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

It  happened  that,  three  miles  out  of  Polchester,  there 
was  a  little  village  known  as  Pybus  St.  Anthonj.  A  very 
beautiful  village  it  was,  with  orchards  and  a  stream  and 
old-world  cottages  and  a  fine  Norman  church.  But  not  for 
its  orchards  nor  its  stream  nor  its  church  was  it  famous.  It 
was  famous  because  for  many  years  its  living  had  been  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  most  important  in  the  whole  diocese 
of  Polchester.  It  was  the  tradition  that  the  man  who  went 
to  Pybus  St,  Anthony  had  the  world  in  front  of  him.  When 
likely  men  for  preferment  were  looked  for  it  was  to  Pybus 
St.  Anthony  that  men  looked.  Heaven  alone  knows  how 
many  Canons  and  Archdeacons  had  made  their  first  bow 
there  to  the  Glebeshire  world !  Three  Deans  and  a  Bishop 
had,  at  different  times,  made  it  their  first  stepping-stone  to 
fame.  Canon  ^Morrison  (Honorary  Canon  of  the  Cathedral) 
was  its  present  incumbent  Less  intellectual  than  some  of 
the  earlier  incumbents,  he  was  nevertheless  a  fine  fellow.  He 
had  been  there  only  three  years  when  s^Tiiptoms  of  cancer  of 
the  throat  had  appeared.  He  had  been  operated  on  in  Lon- 
don, and  at  first  it  had  seemed  that  he  would  recover.  Then 
the  dreaded  signs  had  reappeared ;  he  had  wished,  poor  man, 
to  surrender  the  living,  but  because  there  was  yet  hope  the 
Chapter,  in  whose  gift  the  living  was,  had  insisted  on  his  re- 
maining. 

A  week  ago,  however,  he  had  collapsed.  It  was  feared 
now  that  at  any  moment  he  might  die.  The  Archdeacon  was 
very  sorry  for  ^lorrison.  He  liked  him,  and  was  deeply 
touched  by  his  tragedy;  nevertheless  ono  must  face  facts;  it 
was  probable  that  at  any  moment  now  the  Chapter  would 
be  forced  to  make  a  new  appointment. 

He  had  been  aware — he  did  not  disguise  it  from  himself 
in  the  least — for  some  time  now  of  the  way  that  the  appoint- 
ment must  go.  There  was  a  young  man,  the  Kev.  Ilex  Forsyth 
by  name,  who,  in  his  judgment,  could  be  the  only  possible 
man.  Young  Forsyth  was,  at  the  present  moment,  ciiaplain 
to  th«  Bishop  of  St.  M  in  worth.     St.  M  in  worth  was  only  a 


ONE  PKELUDE  65 

Suffragan  Bishopric,  and  it  could  not  honestly  be  said  that 
there  was  a  great  deal  for  Mr.  Forsyth  to  do  there.  But 
it  was  not  because  the  Archdeacon  thought  that  the  young 
man  ought  to  have  more  to  do  that  he  wished  to  move  him 
to  Pybus  St.  Anthony.  Far  from  it !  The  Archdeacon,  in 
the  deep  secrecy  of  his  own  heart,  could  not  honestly  admit 
that  young  Forsyth  was  a  very  hard  worker — he  liked  hunt- 
ing and  whist  and  a  good  bottle  of  wine  ...  he  was  that 
kind  of  man. 

Where,  then,  were  his  qualifications  as  Canon  Morrison's 
successor?  Well,  quite  honestly — and  the  Archdeacon  was 
one  of  the  honestest  men  alive — his  qualifications  belonged 
more  especially  to  his  ancestors  rather  than  to  himself.  In 
the  Archdeacon's  opinion  there  had  been  too  many  clever  men 
of  Pybus.  Time  now  for  a  normal  man.  Morrison  was  nor- 
mal and  Forsyth  would  be  more  normal  still. 

He  was  in  fact  first  cousin  to  young  Johnny  St.  Leath 
and  therefore  a  very  near  relation  of  the  Countess  herself. 
His  father  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  Earl  of  Trewithen,  and, 
as  every  one  knows,  the  Trewithens  and  the  St.  Leaths  are, 
for  all  practical  purposes,  one  and  the  same  family,  and 
divide  Glebeshire  between  them.  No  one  ever  quite  knew 
what  young  Rex  Forsyth  became  a  parson  for.  Some  people 
said  he  did  it  for  a  wager ;  but  however  true  that  might  be,  he 
was  not  very  happy  with  dear  old  Bishop  Clematis  and  very 
ready  for  preferment. 

Now  the  Archdeacon  was  no  snob ;  he  believed  in  men  and 
women  who  had  long  and  elaborate  family-trees  simply  be- 
cause he  believed  in  institutions  and  because  it  had  always 
seemed  to  him  a  quite  obvious  fact  that  the  longer  any  one 
or  anything  remained  in  a  place  the  more  chance  there  was 
of  things  being  done  as  they  always  had  been  done.  It  was 
not  in  the  least  because  she  was  a  Countess  that  he  thought 
the  old  Lady  St.  Leath  a  wonderful  woman ;  not  wonderful 
for  her  looks  certainly — no  one  could  call  her  a  beautiful 
woman — and  not  wonderful  for  her  intelligence;  the  Arch- 


66  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

deacon  had  frequently  been  compelled  to  admit  to  himself 
that  she  was  a  little  on  the  stupid  side — but  wonderful  for 
her  capacity  for  staying  where  she  was  like  a  rock  and  al- 
lowing nothing  whatever  to  move  her.  In  these  dangerous 
days — and  what  dangerous  days  they  were! — the  safety  of 
the  country  simply  depended  on  a  few  such  figures  as  the 
Countess.  Queen  Victoria  was  another  of  them,  and  for 
her  the  Archdeacon  had  a  real  and  very  touching  devotion. 
Thank  God  he  would  be  able  to  show  a  little  of  it  in  the 
prominent  part  he  intended  to  play  in  the  Polchester  Jubi- 
lee festivals  this  year! 

Any  one  could  see  then  that  to  have  young  Rex  Forsyth 
close  at  hand  at  Pybus  St.  Anthony  was  the  verj-  best  possible 
thing  for  the  good  of  Polchester.  Lady  St.  Leath  saw  it, 
Mrs.  Combermere  saw  it,  Mrs.  Sampson  saw  it,  and  young 
Forsyth  himself  saw  it.  The  Archdeacon  entirely  failed  to 
understand  how  there  could  be  any  one  who  did  not  see  it. 
However,  he  was  afraid  that  there  were  one  or  two  in  Pol- 
chester. .  .  .  People  said  that  young  Forsyth  was  stupid ! 
Perhaps  he  was  not  very  bright;  all  the  easier  then  to  direct 
him  in  the  way  that  he  should  go,  and  throw  his  forces  into 
the  right  direction.  People  said  that  he  cared  more  for  his 
hunting  and  his  whist  than  for  his  work — well,  he  was  young 
and,  at  any  rate,  there  was  none  of  the  canting  hypocrite 
about  him.    The  Archdeacon  hated  canting  hypocrites ! 

There  had  been  signs,  once  and  again,  of  certain  anar- 
chists and  devilish  fellows,  who  crept  up  and  down  the  streets 
of  Polchester  spreading  their  wicked  mischief,  their  lying 
and  disintt^ating  ideas.  The  Archdeacon  was  determined 
to  fight  them  to  the  very  last  breath  in  his  body,  even  as  the 
Black  Bishop  before  him  had  fought  his  enemies.  And  the 
Archdeacon  bad  no  fear  of  his  victory. 

Rex  Forsyth  at  Pybus  St.  Antliony  would  be  a  fine  step 
forward.  Have  one  of  these  irreligious  radicals  there,  and 
Heaven  alone  knew  what  harm  he  might  wreak.     No,  Pol- 


ONE  PKELUDE  67 

Chester  must  be  saved.    Let  the  rest  of  the  world  go  to  pieces, 
Polchester  would  be  preserved. 

On  how  many  earlier  occasions  had  the  Archdeacon  sur- 
veyed the.  Chapter,  considered  it  in  all  its  details  and  weighed 
up  judiciously  the  elements,  good  and  bad,  that  composed 
it.  How  well  he  knew  them  all !  First  the  Dean,  mild  and 
polite  and  amiable,  his  mind  generally  busy  with  his  beloved 
flora  and  fauna,  his  flowers  and  his  butterflies,  very  easy 
indeed  to  deal  with.  Then  Archdeacon  Witheram,  most  nobly 
conscientious,  a  really  devout  man,  taking  his  work  with  a 
seriousness  that  was  simply  admirable,  but  glued  to  the  de- 
tails of  his  own  half  of  the  diocese,  so  that  broader  and  larger 
questions  did  not  concern  him  very  closely.  Bentinck- 
Major  next.  The  Archdeacon  flattered  himself  that  he  knew 
Bentinck-Major  through  and  through — his  snobbery,  his 
vanity,  his  childish  pleasure  in  his  position  and  his  cook, 
his  vanity  in  his  own  smart  appearance!  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  words  adequate  for  the  scorn  with  which  the 
Archdeacon  regarded  that  elegant  little  man.  Then  Ryle, 
the  Precentor.  He  was,  to  some  extent,  an  unknown  quan- 
tity. His  chief  characteristic  perhaps  was  his  hatred  of 
quarrels — ^he  would  say  or  do  anything  if  only  he  might  not 
be  drawn  into  a  "row."  "Peace  at  any  price"  was  his  motto, 
and  this,  of  course,  as  with  the  famous  Vicar  of  Bray,  in- 
volved a  good  deal  of  insincerity.  The  Archdeacon  knew 
that  he  could  not  trust  him,  but  a  masterful  policy  of  terror- 
ism had  always  been  very  successful.  Ryle  was  frankly 
frightened  by  the  Archdeacon,  and  a  very  good  thing  too! 
Might  he  long  remain  so !  Lastly  there  was  Foster,  the  Dio- 
cesan Missioner.  Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  the  Archdeacon 
hated  Foster.  Foster  had  been  a  thorn  in  the  Archdeacon's 
side  ever  since  his  arrival  in  Polchester — a  thin,  shambly- 
kneed,  untidy,  pale-faced  prig,  that  was  what  Foster  was! 
The  Archdeacon  hated  everything  about  him — ^his  grey  hair, 
his  large  protruding  ears,  the  pimple  on  the  end  of  his  nose, 


6S  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

the  baggy  knece  to  his  trousers,  his  thick  heavy  hands  that 
never  seemed  to  be  properly  washed. 

Nevertheless  beneath  that  hatred  the  Archdeacon  was  com- 
pelled to  a  reluctant  admiration.  The  man  was  fearless,  a 
fanatic  if  you  please,  but  devoted  to  his  religion,  believing  in 
it  with  a  fervour  and  sincerity  that  nothing  could  shake.  An 
able  man  too,  the  best  preacher  in  the  diocese,  better  read 
in  every  kind  of  theology'  than  any  clergyman  in  Glebe- 
shire.  It  was  especially  for  his  open  mind  about  new  re- 
ligious ideas  that  the  Archdeacon  mistrusted  him.  No  opin- 
ion, however  heterodox,  shocked  him.  Ho  welcomed  new 
thought  and  had  himself  written  a  book,  Chr{j<t  and  the 
Gospels,  that  for  its  learning  and  broad-mindedness  had  cre- 
ated a  considerable  stir.  But  ho  was  a  dull  dog,  never 
laughed,  never  even  smiled,  lived  by  himself  and  kept  to 
himself.  He  had,  in  the  past,  opposed  every  plan  of  the 
Archdeacon's,  and  opposed  it  relentlessly,  but  he  was  always, 
thanks  to  the  Archdeacon's  elTorts,  in  a  minority.  The 
other  Canons  disliked  him;  the  old  Bishop,  safely  tucked 
away  in  his  Palace  at  Carpledon,  was,  except  for  his  satellite 
Rogers,  his  only  friend  in  Polchester. 

So  much  for  the  Chapter.  There  was  now  only  one  un- 
known element  in  the  situation — Bonder,  l^^ndcr's  position 
was  important  because  he  was  Treasurer  to  the  Cathedral. 
His  predecessor,  Hart-Smith,  now  promoted  to  the  Deanery 
of  Norwich,  had  been  an  able  man,  but  one  of  the  old  school, 
a  great  friend  of  Brandon's,  seeing  eye  to  eye  with  him  in 
everything.  The  Archdeacon  then  had  had  his  finger  very 
closely  upon  the  Cathedral  purse,  and  Hart-Smith's  depar- 
ture had  been  a  very  serious  blow.  The  appointment  of  the 
new  Canon  had  been  in  the  hands  of  the  Crown,  and  Brandon 
had,  of  course,  had  nothing  to  say  to  it.  However,  one  glance 
at  Bonder — he  had  seen  him  and  spoken  to  him  at  the  Dean's 
a  few  days  after  his  arrival — had  reassured  him.  Here, 
Burely,  was  a  man  whom  he  need  not  fear — an  easy,  good- 
natured,  rather  stupid  fellow  by  the  look  of  him.     Brandon 


ONE  PRELUDE  69 

hoped  to  have  his  finger  on  the  Cathedral  purse  as  tightly  in 
a  few  weeks'  time  as  he  had  had  it  before. 

And  all  this  was  in  no  sort  of  fashion  for  the  Archdea- 
con's personal  advancement  or  ambition.  He  was  contented 
with  Polchester,  and  quite  prepared  to  live  there  for  the  rest 
of  his  days  and  be  buried,  with  proper  ceremonies,  when  his 
end  came.  With  all  his  soul  he  loved  the  Cathedral,  and  if 
he  regarded  himself  as  the  principal  factor  in  its  good  gov- 
ernance and  order  he  did  so  with  a  sort  of  divine  fatalism — 
no  credit  to  him  that  it  was  so.  Let  credit  be  given  to  the 
Lord  God  who  had  seen  fit  to  make  him  what  he  was  and 
to  place  in  his  hands  that  great  charge. 

His  fault  in  the  matter  was,  perhaps,  that  he  took  it  all 
too  simply,  that  he  regarded  these  men  and  the  other  fig- 
ures in  Polchester  exactly  as  he  saw  them,  did  not  believe 
that  they  could  ever  be  anything  else.  As  God  had  created 
the  world,  so  did  Brandon  create  Polchester  as  nearly  in  his 
own  likeness  as  might  be — there  they  all  were  and  there, 
please  God,  they  would  all  be  for  ever ! 

Bending  his  mind  then  to  this  new  campaign,  he  thought 
that  he  would  go  and  see  the  Dean.  He  knew  by  this  time, 
he  fancied,  exactly  how  to  prepare  the  Dean's  mind  for  the 
proper  reception  of  an  idea,  although,  in  truth,  he  was  as 
simple  over  his  plots  and  plans  as  a  child  brick-building 
in  its  nursery. 

About  three  o'clock  one  afternoon  he  prepared  to  sally 
forth.  The  Dean's  house  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  Ca- 
thedral, and  you  had  to  go  down  the  High  Street  and  then 
to  the  left  up  Orange  Street  to  get  to  it,  an  irrational  round- 
about proceeding  that  always  irritated  the  Archdeacon.  Very 
splendid  he  looked,  his  top-hat  shining,  his  fine  high  white 
collar,  his  spotless  black  clothes,  his  boots  shapely  and  smart. 
(He  and  Bentinck-Major  were,  I  suppose,  the  only  two 
clergymen  in  Polchester  who  used  boot-trees.)  But  his 
smartness  was  in  no  way  an  essential  with  him.  Clothed 
in  rags  he  would  still  have  the  grand  air.     "I  often  think 


70  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

of  him,"  Miss  Dobell  once  said,  "as  one  of  those  glorious 
gondoliers  in  Venice.    How  grand  he  would  look !" 

However  that  might  be,  it  is  beyond  question  that  the 
ridiculous  clothes  that  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land is  compelled  to  wear  did  not  make  him  absurd,  nor 
did  he  look  an  over-drossed  fop  like  Bentinck-Major. 

Miss  IXibell's  gondolier  was,  on  this  present  occasion,  in 
an  excellent  temper;  and  meeting  his  daughter  Joan,  he  felt 
very  genial  towards  her.  Joan  had  obser\'ed,  several  days 
before,  that  the  family  crisis  might  be  said  to  be  past,  and 
ver\'  thankful  she  was. 

She  had,  at  this  time,  her  own  happy  dreams,  so  that 
father  and  daughter,  moved  by  some  genial  impulse,  stopped 
and  kissed. 

"There!  my  dear!"  said  the  Archdeacon.  "And  what 
are  you  doing  this  afternoon,  Joan?" 

"I'm  going  with  mother,"  she  said,  "to  see  Miss  Render. 
It's  time  we  called,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  it  is."  Brandon  patted  her  cheek.  "Every- 
thing you  want  ?" 

"Yes,  father,  thank  you." 

"That's  right" 

He  left  the  house,  humming  a  little  tune.  On  the  second 
step  he  paused,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing,  and  surveyed 
the  Precincts — the  houses  with  their  shining  knockers,  their 
old-fashioned  bow-windows  and  overhanging  portals,  the  Ca- 
thedral Green,  and  the  towering  front  of  the  Cathedral  it- 
self. He  was,  for  a  moment,  a  kind  of  presiding  deity  over 
all  this.  Ho  loved  it  and  believed  in  it  and  trusted  it  exactly 
as  though  it  had  been  the  work  of  his  own  hands.  Half- 
way towards  the  Arden  Gate  he  overtook  poor  old  shambling 
Canon  Morphow,  who  really  ought,  in  the  Archdeacon's 
opinion,  to  have  died  long  ago.  However,  as  he  hadn't  died 
the  Archdeacon  felt  kindly  towards  him,  and  he  had,  when 
he  talked  to  the  old  man,  a  sense  of  beneficence  and  charity 
very  warming  to  the  heart. 


ONE  PKELUDE  71 

"Well,  Morphew,  enjoying  the  sun  ?" 

Canon  Morphew  always  started  when  any  one  spoke  to 
him,  being  sunk  all  day  deep  in  dreams  of  his  own,  dreams 
that  had  their  birth  somewhere  in  the  heart  of  the  misty  dirty 
rooms  where  his  books  were  piled  ceiling-high  and  papers 
blew  about  the  floor. 

"Good  afternoon  .  .  .  good  afternoon,  Archdeacon.  Pray 
forgive  me.     You  came  upon  me  unawares." 

Brandon  moderated  his  manly  stride  to  the  other's  shuf- 
fling steps. 

"Hope  you've  had  none  of  that  tiresome  rheumatism  trou- 
bling you  again." 

"Rheumatism  ?  Just  a  twinge — just  a  twinge.  ...  It  be- 
longs to  my  time  of  life." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that !"  The  Archdeacon  laughed  his  hearty 
laugh.     "You've  many  years  in  front  of  you  yet." 

"E'o,  I  haven't — and  you  don't  mean  it.  Archdeacon — you 
know  you  don't.  A  few  months  perhaps — that's  all.  The 
Lord's  will  be  done.  But  there's  a  piece  of  work  ...  a  piece 
of  work.  .  .  ." 

He  ran  off  into  incoherent  mumblings.  Suddenly,  just 
as  they  reached  the  dark  shadows  of  the  Arden  Gate,  he 
seemed  to  wake  up.  His  voice  was  quite  vigorous,  his  eyes, 
tired  and  worn  as  they  were,  bravely  scanned  Brandon's 
health  and  vigour. 

"We  all  come  to  it,  you  know.  Yes,  we  do.  The  very- 
strongest  of  us.  You're  a  young  man,  Archdeacon,  by  my 
years,  and  I  hope  you  may  long  live  to  continue  your  good 
work  in  this  place.  All  the  same,  you'll  be  old  yourself  one 
day.     !No  one  escapes.  .  .  .  'No  one  escapes.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  good-day  to  you,"  said  the  Archdeacon  hurriedly. 
"Good-day  to  you.  .  .  .  Hope  this  bright  weather  continues," 
and  started  rather  precipitately  down  the  hill,  leaving  Mor- 
phew to  find  his  way  by  himself. 

His  impetuosity  was  soon  restrained.  He  tumbled  imme- 
diately into  a  crowd,  and  pulling  himself  up  abruptly  and 


72  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

looking  down  the  High  Street  ho  saw  that  the  pavement  on 
both  sides  of  the  street  was  black  with  people.  Ho  was  not 
a  man  who  liked  to  bo  jostled,  and  he  was  the  more  uncom- 
fortable in  that  he  discovered  that  his  inmaediate  neighbour 
was  Samuel  Hogg,  the  stout  and  rubicund  landlord  of  the 
*^Dog  and  Pilchard"  of  Seatown.  With  him  was  his  pretty 
daughter  Annie.  Near  to  them  were  Mr.  John  Curtis  and 
II r.  Samuel  Croppet,  two  of  the  Town  Councillors.  With 
none  of  these  gentlemen  did  the  Archdeacon  wish  to  begin 
a  conversation. 

And  yet  it  was  difficult  to  know  wliat  to  do.  The  High 
Street  pavements  were  narrow,  and  the  crowd  seemed  con- 
tinually to  increase.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  pushing  and 
laughter  and  boisterous  good-humour.  To  return  up  the 
street  again  seemed  to  have  something  ignominious  about  it. 
Brandon  decided  to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  support  his  dignity 
and  indulge  his  amiability  by  staying  where  he  was. 

"Good  afternoon,  Hogg,"  he  said.  ''What's  the  disturb- 
ance for?" 

"Markisses  Circus,  sir,"  Hogg  lifted  his  face  like  a  large 
round  sun.    "Surely  you'd  'card  of  it,  Archdeacon  ?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  know,"  said  Brandon  in  his  most  gracious 
manner,  "that  it  was  this  afternoon.  ...  Of  course,  how 
stupid  of  me!" 

He  smiled  round  good-naturedly  upon  them  all,  and  they 
all  smiled  back  upon  him.  He  was  a  popular  figure  in  the 
to\vn ;  it  was  felt  that  his  handsome  face  and  splendid  pres- 
ence did  the  town  credit  Also,  be  always  knew  his  own 
mind.     And  he  was  no  coward. 

He  nodde<l  to  Curtis  and  Croppet  and  then  stared  in  front 
of  him,  a  fixed  genial  smile  on  his  face,  his  fine  figure  tri- 
umphant in  the  sun.  He  looked  as  though  he  were  enjoy- 
ing himstilf  and  was  happy  because  he  liked  to  see  his  fellow- 
creatures  happy;  in  reality  he  was  wondering  how  ho 
could  have  been  so  foolish  as  to  forget  Marquis'   Circus. 


6ne  PKELUDE  73 

Why  had  not  Joan  said  something  to  him  ahout  it?  Very 
careless  of  her  to  place  him  in  this  unfortunate  position. 

He  looked  around  him,  but  he  could  see  no  other  dignitary 
of  the  Church  close  at  hand.  How  tiresome — really,  how 
tiresome !  Moreover,  as  the  timed  moment  of  the  procession 
arrived  the  crowd  increased,  and  he  was  now  most  uncom- 
fortably pressed  against  other  people.  He  felt  a  sharp  little 
dig  in  his  stomach,  then,  turning,  found  close  beside  him  the 
flushed  anxious,  meagre  little  face  of  Samuel  Bond,  the  Clerk 
of  the  Chapter.  Bond's  struggle  to  reach  his  dignified  posi- 
tion in  the  town  had  been  a  severe  one,  and  had  only  suc- 
ceeded because  of  a  multitude  of  self-submissions  and  abne- 
gations, humilities  and  contempts,  flatteries  and  sycophancies 
that  would  have  tired  and  defeated  a  less  determined  soul. 
But,  in  the  backgTound,  there  were  the  figures  of  Mrs.  Bond 
and  four  little  Bonds  to  spur  him  forward.  He  adored  his 
family.  "Whatever  I  am,  I'm  a  family  man,"  was  one 
of  his  favourite  sayings.  In  so  worthy  a  cause  much 
sycophancy  may  be  forgiven  him.  To  no  one,  however,  was 
he  so  completely  sycophantic  as  to  the  Archdeacon.  He  was 
terrified  of  the  Archdeacon;  he  would  wake  up  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night  and  think  of  him,  then  tremble  and  cower 
under  the  warm  protection  of  Mrs.  Bond  until  sleep  rescued 
him  once  more. 

It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  however  numerous  the  peo- 
ple in  Polchester  might  be  whom  the  Archdeacon  despised, 
he  despised  little  Bond  most  of  all.  And  here  was  little  Bond 
pressed  up  against  him,  with  the  large  circumference  of  the 
cheerful  Mr.  Samuel  Hogg  near  by,  and  the  ironical  town 
smartness  of  Messrs.  Curtis  and  Croppet  close  at  hand. 
Truly  a  horrible  position. 

"Ah,  Archdeacon!  I  didn't  see  you — indeed  I  didn't!" 
The  little  breathless  voice  was  like  a  child's  penny  whistle 
blown  ignorantly.  "Just  fancy ! — meeting  you  like  this ! 
Hot,  isn't  it,  although  it's  only  February.     Yes.  .  .  .  Hot 


74  THE  CATIIEDRxVL  book 

indeed.  I  didn't  know  you  cared  for  processions,  Arch- 
deacon  " 

"I  don't,"  said  Brandon.  *'I  hadn't  realised  that  there 
was  a  procession.     Stupidly,  I  had  forgotten " 

"Well,  well,"  came  the  good-natured  voice  of  Mr.  Hogg. 
"It'll  do  us  no  harm.  Archdeacon — no  harm  at  all.  I  forget 
whether  you  rightly  know  my  little  girl.  This  is  Annie — 
come  out  to  see  the  procession  with  her  father." 

The  Archdeacon  was  compelled  to  shake  hands.  He  did 
it  very  graciously.  She  was  certainly  a  fine  girl — tall,  strong, 
full-breasted,  with  dark  colour  and  raven  black  hair;  curious, 
her  eyes,  very  largo  and  bright.  They  stared  full  at  you, 
but  past  you,  as  though  they  had  decided  that  you  were  of 
insufficient  interest. 

Annie  thus  gazed  at  the  Archdeacon  and  said  no  word. 
Any  further  intimacies  were  prevented  by  approach  of  the 
procession.  To  the  present  generation  Marquis'  Circus  would 
not  appear,  I  suppose,  very  wonderful.  To  many  of  us,  thirty 
years  ago,  it  seemed  the  final  expression  of  Oriental  splendour 
and  display. 

There  were  murmurs  and  cries  of  "Here  they  come !  Hero 
they  come!  'Ere  they  be!"  Every  one  pressed  forward; 
Mr.  Bond  was  nearly  thrown  otf  his  feet  and  caught  at  the 
lapol  of  the  Archdeacon's  coat  to  save  himself.  Only  the 
huge  black  eyes  of  Annie  Hogg  displayed  no  interest.  The 
pnxession  had  8tarted_  from  the  mciidows  beyond  the  Cathe- 
dral and,  after  discreetly  avoiding  the  Precincts,  was  to 
plunge  down  the  High  Street,  pass  through  the  Market-place 
and  vanish  up  Orange  Street — to  follow,  in  fact,  the  very 
pa  til  that  the  Archdeacon  intended  to  pursue. 

A  band  could  bo  heard,  there  was  an  astounded  hush  (the 
whole  of  the  High  Street  holding  its  breath),  then  the  herald 
app<*arcd. 

Ho  was,  perhaps,  a  rather  shabby  fellow,  wearing  the 
tarnished  red  and  gold  of  many  a  pmcossion,  but  ho  walked 
confidently,  holding  in  his  hand  a  tall  wooden  truncheon  gay 


ONE  PEELUDE  75 

with  paper-gilt,  having  his  round  cap  of  cloth  of  gold  set 
rakishly  on  one  side  of  his  head.  After  him  came  the  band, 
also  in  tarnished  cloth  of  gold  and  looking  as  though  they 
would  have  been  a  trifle  ashamed  of  themselves  had  they 
not  been  deeply  involved  in  the  intricacies  of  their  music. 
After  the  band  came  four  rather  shabby  riders  on  horse- 
back, then  some  men  dressed  apparently  in  admiring  imita- 
tion of  Charles  II. ;  then,  to  the  wonder  and  whispered  in- 
credulity of  the  crowd,  Britannia  on  her  triumphal  car. 
The  car — an  elaborate  cart,  with  gilt  wheels  and  strange 
cardboard  figures  of  dolphins  and  Father  Keptune — had  in 
its  centre  a  high  seat  painted  white  and  perched  on  a  kind 
of  box.  Seated  on  this  throne  was  Britannia  herself — a 
large,  full-bosomed,  flaxen-haired  lady  in  white  flowing  robes, 
and  having  a  very  anxious  expression  of  countenance,  as, 
indeed,  poor  thing,  was  natural  enough,  because  the  cart 
rocked  the  box  and  the  box  yet  more  violently  rocked  the 
chair.  At  any  moment,  it  seemed,  might  she  be  precipitated, 
a  fallen  goddess,  among  the  crowd,  and  the  fact  that  the 
High  Street  was  on  a  slope  of  considerable  sharpness  did  not 
add  to  her  ease  and  comfort.  Two  stout  gentlemen,  perspira- 
tion bedewing  their  foreheads,  strove  to  restrain  the  ponies, 
and  their  classic  clothing,  that  turned  them  into  rather 
tattered  Bacchuses,  did  not  make  them  less  incongruous. 

Britannia  and  her  agony,  however,  were  soon  forgotten 
in  the  ferocious  excitements  that  followed  her.  Here  were 
two  camels,  tired  and  dusty,  with  that  look  of  bored  and 
indifferent  superiority  that  belong-s  to  their  tribe,  two  ele- 
phants, two  clowns,  and  last,  but  of  course  the  climax  of  the 
whole  affair,  a  cage  in  which  there  could  be  seen  behind  the 
iron  bars  a  lion  and  a  lioness,  jolted  haplessly  from  side  to 
side,  but  too  deeply  shamed  and  indignant  to  do  more  than 
reproach  the  crowd  with  their  burning  eyes.  Finally,  another 
clown  bearing  a  sandwich-board  on  which  was  printed  in 
large    red    letters    "Marquis'    Circus — the    Finest    in    the 


76  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

World — Renowned  through  Europe — Come  to  the  Church 
Meadows  aud  see  the  Fun" — and  so  on. 

As  this  glorious  procession  passed  down  the  High  Street 
the  crowd  expressed  its  admiration  in  silent  whispering. 
There  was  no  loud  applause ;  nevertheless,  Mr.  ^f  arquis,  were 
he  present,  must  have  felt  the  air  electric  with  praise.  It 
was  murmured  that  Britannia  was  Mrs.  ^larquis,  aud,  if 
that  were  true,  she  must  have  given  her  spouse  afterwards, 
in  the  sanctity  of  their  privacy,  a  very  grateful  account  of 
her  reception. 

When  the  band  had  passed  a  little  way  down  the  street 
and  their  somewhat  raucous  notes  were  modified  by  distance, 
the  sun  came  out  in  especial  glory,  as  though  to  take  his 
own  peep  at  the  show,  the  gilt  and  cloth  of  gold  shone  and 
gleamed,  the  chair  of  Britannia  rocked  as  though  it  were 
bursting  with  pride,  and  the  Cathedral  bells,  as  though  they 
too  wished  to  lend  their  dignified  blessing  to  the  scene, 
began  to  ring  for  Evensong.  A  sentimental  observer,  had 
be  been  present,  might  have  imagined  that  the  old  town 
was  glad  to  have  once  again  an  excuse  for  some  display,  and 
preened  itself  and  showed  forth  its  richest  and  warmest 
colours  and  wondered,  perhaps,  whether  after  all  the  drab 
and  interesting  citizens  of  to-day  were  not  minded  to  return 
to  the  gayer  and  happier  old  times.  Quito  a  noise,  too,  of 
chatter  and  tnmipets  and  bells  and  laughter.  Even  the 
Archdeacon  forgot  his  official  smile  and  laughed,  like  a 
boy. 

It  was  then  that  the  terrible  tiling  happened.  Somewhere 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  High  Street  the  procession  was  held 
up  and  the  chariot  had  suddenly  to  pull  itself  back  upon  its 
wheels,  and  the  band  were  able  to  breathe  freely  for  a 
minute,  to  gaze  alwut  them  and  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  their 
brows;  even  in  February  blowing  and  thumping  "all  round 
tlio  to^^^l"  was  a  warm  business. 

Now,  just  opposite  the  Archdeacon  were  the  two  elephants, 
chcc-kcd  by  tlio  sudden  pause.     Behind  tliem  was  the  cage 


ONE  PRELUDE  n 

with  iiie  lions,  who,  now  that  the  jolting  had  ceased,  could 
collect  their  scattered  indignities  and  roar  a  little  in  ex- 
asperated protest.  The  elephants,  too,  perhaps  felt  the 
humility  of  their  position,  accustomed  though  they  might 
be  to  it  by  many  years  of  sordid  slavery.  It  may  be,  too, 
that  the  sight  of  that  patronising  and  ignorant  crowd,  the 
crush  and  pack  of  the  High  Street,  the  silly  sniggering, 
the  triumphant  jangle  of  the  Cathedral  bells,  thrust  through 
their  slow  and  heavy  brains  some  vision  long  faded  now, 
but  for  an  instant  revived,  of  their  green  jungles,  their  hot 
suns,  their  ancient  royalty  and  might.  They  realised  per- 
haps a  sudden  instinct  of  their  power,  that  they  could  with 
one  lifting  of  the  hoof  crush  these  midgets  that  hemmed 
them  in  back  to  the  pulp  whence  they  came,  and  so  go 
roaming  and  bellowing  their  freedom  through  the  streets  and 
ways  of  the  city.  The  larger  of  the  two  suddenly  raised 
his  head  and  trumpeted ;  with  his  dim  uplifted  eyes  he 
caught  sight  of  the  Archdeacon's  rich  and  gleaming  top- 
hat  shining,  as  an  emblem  of  the  city's  majesty,  above  the 
crowd.  It  gleamed  in  the  sun,  and  he  hated  it.  He 
trumpeted  again  and  yet  again,  then,  with  a  heavy  lurching 
movement,  stumbled  towards  the  pavement,  and  with  little 
fierce  eyes  and  uplifted  trunk  heaved  towards  his  enemies. 

The  crowd,  with  screams  and  cries,  fell  back  in  agitated 
confusion.  The  Archdeacon,  caught  by  surprise,  scarcely 
realising  what  had  occurred,  blinded  a  little  by  the  sun,  stood 
where  he  was.  In  another  movement  his  top-hat  was  snatched 
from  his  head  and  tossed  into  air.  .  .  . 

He  felt  the  animal's  hot  breath  upon  his  face,  heard  the 
shouts  and  cries  around  him,  and,  in  very  natural  alarm, 
started  back,  caught  at  anything  for  safety  (he  had  tumbled 
upon  the  broad  and  protective  chest  of  Samuel  Hogg),  and' 
had  a  general  impression  of  whirling  figures,  of  suns  and 
roofs  and  shining  faces  and,  finally,  the  high  winds  of  heaven 
blowing  upon  his  bare  head. 

In  another  moment  the  incident  was  closed.     The  courtier 


78  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

of  Charles  II.  had  rushed  up;  the  elephant  was  pulled  and 
hustled  and  kicked ;  for  him  swiftly  the  vision  of  power  and 
^lory  and  vengeance  was  over,  and  once  again  he  was  the 
tied  and  governed  prisoner  of  modern  civilisation.  The 
top-hat  lay,  a  battered  and  hapless  remnant,  beneath  the  feet 
of  tlie  now  advancing  procession. 

Once  the  crowd  realised  that  the  danger  was  over  a  roar 
of  laughter  went  up  to  heaven.  There  were  shouts  and 
cries.  The  Archdeacon  tried  to  smile.  He  heard  in  dim  con- 
fusion the  cheery  laugh  of  Samuel  Hogg,  he  caught  the  com- 
ment of  Croppet  and  the  rest. 

With  only  one  thought  that  he  must  hide  himself,  in- 
dignation, humiliation,  amazement  that  such  a  thing  could  be 
in  his  heart,  he  backed,  turned,  almost  ran,  finding  at  last 
sudden  refuge  in  Bennett's  book-shop.  How  wonderful  was 
the  dark  rich  security  of  that  enclosure!  The  shop  was 
always  in  a  half-dusk  and  the  gas  burnt  in  its  dim  globes 
during  most  of  the  day.  All  the  richer  and  handsomer 
gleamed  the  rows  of  volumes,  the  morocco  and  the  leather 
and  the  cloth.  Old  Mr.  Bennett  himself,  the  son  of  the 
famous  man  who  had  known  Scott  and  Byron,  was  now  a 
prodigious  age  (in  the  town  his  nickname  was  Methusalem), 
but  he  still  liked  to  sit  in  the  shop  in  a  high  chair,  his  white 
beard  in  bright  contrast  with  the  chaste  selection  of  the 
newest  works  arranged  in  front  of  him.  He  might  himself 
have  been  the  Spirit  of  Select  Literature  summoned  out  of 
the  vasty  deep  by  the  Cultured  Spirits  of  Polchester. 

Into  this  splendid  temple  of  letters  the  Archdeacon 
came,  halted,  breathless,  bewildered,  tumbled.  He  saw  at 
first  only  dimly.  Ho  was  aware  that  old  Mr.  Bennett,  with 
an  exclamation  of  surprise,  rose  in  his  chair.  Then  ho 
perceived  that  two  others  were  in  the  shop ;  finally,  that  those 
two  were  the  Dean  and  Konder,  the  men  of  all  others  in 
Polchester  whom  he  least  wished  to  fijid  there. 

"Archdeacon!"  cried  the  Dean. 


ONE 


PRELUDE  79 


"Yes — om — ah — an  extraordinary  thing  has  occurred — I 
really — oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Wilton.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Frank  Wilton,  the  young  assistant,  had  offered  a 
chair. 

"You'll  scarcely  believe  me — really,  I  can  hardly  believe 
myself."  Here  the  Archdeacon  tried  to  laugh.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  was  coming  out  to  see  you  ...  on  my  way  .  .  . 
and  the  elephant  .  .  ." 

"The  elephant  ?"  repeated  the  Dean,  who,  in  the  way  that 
he  had,  was  nervously  rubbing  one  gaitered  leg  against  the 
other. 

"Yes — I'm  a  little  incoherent,  I'm  afraid.  You  must 
forgive  me  .  .  .  breathless  too.  .  .  .  It's  too  absurd.  So 
many  people  .  .  ." 

"A  little  glass  of  water,  Mr.  Archdeacon?"  said  young 
Wilton,  who  had  a  slight  cast  in  one  eye,  and  therefore 
gave  the  impression  that  he  was  watching  round  the  corner 
to  see  that  no  one  ran  off  with  the  books. 

"N^o,  thank  you,  Wilton.  .  .  .  No,  thank  you.  .  .  .  Very 
good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  But  really  it  was  a  monstrous  thing. 
I  was  coming  to  see  you,  as  I've  just  said,  Dean,  having 
forgotten  all  about  this  ridiculous  procession.  I  was  held 
up  by  the  crowd  just  below  the  shop  here.  Then  suddenly, 
as  the  animals  were  passing,  the  elephant  made  a  lurch 
towards  me — positively,  I'm  not  exaggerating — seized  my 
hat  and — ran  off  with  it !" 

The  Archdeacon  had,  as  I  have  already  said,  a  sense  of 
fun.  He  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  humour  of  the  thing. 
He  began  to  laugh;  he  laughed  more  loudly;  laughter  over- 
took him  altogether,  and  he  roared  and  roared  again,  sitting 
there,  his  hands  on  his  knees,  until  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheek. 

"Oh  dear  .  .  .  my  hat  ...  an  elephant  .  .  .  Did  you 
ever  hear ?  My  best  hat  .  .  . !"  The  Dean  was  com- 
pelled to  laugh  too,  although,  being  a  shy  and  hesitating  man, 
he  was  not  able  to  do  it  very  heartily.     Young  Mr.  Wilton 


80  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

laughed,  but  in  such  a  wav  as  to  show  that  he  knew  his 
place  and  was  ready  to  be  serious  at  once  if  his  superiors 
wished  it.  Even  old  Mr.  Bennett  laughed  as  distantly  and 
gently  as  befitted  his  great  age. 

Brandon  was  conscious  of  Ronder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been 
conscious  of  him  from  the  very  instant  of  his  first  perception 
of  him.  He  was  giving  himself  away  before  their  new 
Canon ;  he  thought  that  the  new  Canon,  although  he  was 
smiling  pleasantly  and  was  standing  with  becoming  modesty 
in  the  background,  looked  superior.  .  .  . 

The  Archdeacon  pulled  himself  up  with  a  jerk.  After 
all,  it  was  nothing  of  a  joke.  A  multitude  of  townspeople 
had  seen  him  in  a  most  ludicrous  position,  had  seen  him 
start  back  in  terror  before  a  tame  elephant,  had  seen  him 
frightened  and  hatless.  No,  there  was  nothing  to  laugh 
about 

"An  elephant?"  repeated  the  Dean,  still  gently  laughing. 

**Yes,  an  elephant,"  answered  Brandon  rather  testily. 
That  was  enough  of  the  affair,  quite  enough.  "Well,  I  must 
be  getting  back.     See  you  to-morrow.  Dean." 

"Anything  important  you  wanted  to  see  mo  about?"  asked 
the  Dean,  perceiving  that  he  had  laughed  just  a  little  longer 
than  was  truly  necessary. 

"No,  no  .  .  .  nothing.  Only  about  poor  Morrison.  He's 
very  bad,  they  tell  me  ...  a  week  at  most." 

"Dear,  dear — is  that  so?"  said  the  Dean.  "Poor  fellow, 
poor  fellow !" 

Brandon  was  now  acutely  conscious  of  Ronder.  Why 
didn't  the  fellow  say  something  instead  of  standing  silently 
there  with  that  supt^rior  look  Ix^hind  h's  glasses^  In  tlip 
ordinary  way  he  would  have  greeted  him  with  his  usual 
hearty  patronage.  Now  he  was  irritated.  It  was  renllv 
most  unfortunate  that  Ronder  should  have  witnessed  his 
humiliation.  He  rose,  abruptly  turning  his  back  upon  him. 
The  fellow  was  laughing  at  him — he  was  sure  of  it. 

"Well — good-day,    good -day."      As   he   advanced    to   the 


ONE  PKELUDE  81 

door  and  looked  out  into  the  street  lie  was  aware  of  the 
ludicrousness  of  going  even  a  few  steps  up  the  street  without 
a  hat. 

Confound  Ronder! 

But  there  was  scarcely  any  one  about  now.  The  street 
was  almost  deserted.     He  peered  up  and  down. 

In  the  middle  of  the  road  was  a  small,  shapeless,  black 
object. 

.  .  .  His  hat  I 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.     BRANDON     GOES    OUT     TO     TEA 

MRS.  BR^VXDON  hated  ber  husband.  No  one  in  Pol 
Chester  had  the  slightest  suspicion  of  this;  certainly 
her  husband  least  of  all.  She  herself  had  been  first  aware 
of  it  one  summer  afternoon  some  five  or  six  years  ago  when, 
very  pleasantly  and  in  the  kindest  way,  he  had  told  her 
that  she  knew  nothing  about  primroses.  They  had  been 
having  tea  at  the  Dean's,  and,  as  was  often  the  case  then, 
the  conversation  had  concerned  itself  with  flowers  and  ferns. 
-Mrs.  Brandon  was  quite  ready  to  admit  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  primroses — there  were  for  her  yellow  ones 
and  other  ones,  and  that  was  all.  The  Archdeacon  had  often 
before  told  her  that  she  was  ignorant,  and  she  had  acquiesced 
without  a  murmur.  Upon  this  afternoon,  just  as  Mrs. 
Sampson  was  asking  her  whether  she  liked  sugar,  revelation 
came  to  her.  That  little  scene  was  often  afterwards  vividly 
in  front  of  her — the  Archdeacon,  with  his  magnificent  legs 
spread  apart  in  front  of  the  fireplace;  ^liss  Dobell  trying  to 
l<Hjk  with  wisdom  upon  a  little  bundle  of  primulas  that  the 
Dean  was  showing  to  her;  the  sunlight  upon  the  lawn  beyond 
the  window;  the  rooks  in  the  high  elms  busy  with  their 
nosts;  tlie  May  warmth  striking  through  the  misty  air — all 
was  painted  for  ever  afterwards  upon  her  mind. 

"My  dear,  you  may  as  well  admit  at  once  that  you  know 
nothing  whatever  about  primroses." 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  don't — thank  you,  Mrs.  Sampson.    One 
lump,  please." 

She  had  been  coming  to  it.     Of  course,  a  very  long  time 

y2 


PEELUDE  83 

before  this — very,  very  far  away,  now  an  incredible  memory, 
seemed  the  days  when  she  had  loved  him  so  passionately 
that  she  almost  died  with  anxiety  if  he  left  her  for  a  single 
night.  Almost  too  passionate  it  had  been,  perhaps.  He 
himself  was  not  capable  of  passionate  love,  or,  at  any  rate, 
had  been  quite  satisfied  to  be  not  passionately  in  love  with 
her.  He  pursued  other  things — his  career,  his  religion,  his 
simple  beneficence,  his  health,  his  vigour.  His  love  for 
his  son  was  the  most  passionately  personal  thing  in  him,  and 
over  that  they  might  have  met  had  he  been  able  to  conceive 
her  as  a  passionate  being.  Her  ignorance  of  life — almost 
complete  when  he  had  met  her — had  been  but  little  dimin- 
ished by  her  time  with  him.  She  knew  now,  after  all  those 
years,  little  more  of  the  world  and  its  terrors  and  blessings 
than  she  had  known  then.  But  she  did  know  that  nothing 
in  her  had  been  satisfied.  She  knew  now  of  what  she  was 
capable,  and  it  was  perhaps  the  thought  that  he  had,  by 
taking  her,  prevented  her  fulfilment  and  complete  experience 
that  caused  her,  more  than  anything  else,  to  hate  him. 

She  very  quickly  discovered  that  he  had  married  her  for 
certain  things — to  have  children,  to  have  a  companion.  He 
had  soon  found  that  the  latter  of  these  he  was  not  to  obtain. 
She  had  in  her  none  of  the  qualities  that  he  needed  in  a 
companion,  and  so  he  had,  with  complete  good-nature  and 
kindliness,  ceased  to  consider  her.  He  should  have  married 
a  bold  ambitious  woman  who  would  have  wanted  the  things 
that  he  wanted — a  woman  something  like  Falk,  his  son.  On 
the  rare  occasions  when  he  analysed  the  situation  he  realised 
this.  He  did  not  in  any  way  vent  his  disappointment  upon 
her — he  was  only  slightly  disappointed.  He  treated  her  with 
real  kindness  save  on  the  occasions  of  his  violent  loss  of 
temper,  and  gave  her  anything  that  she  wanted.  He  had, 
on  the  whole,  a  great  contempt  for  women  save  when,  as  for 
instance  with  Mrs.  Combermere,  they  were  really  men. 

It  was  to  her  most  humiliating  of  all,  that  nothing  in  their 
relations  worried  him.    He  was  perfectly  at  ease  about  it  all. 


84  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

and  fancied  that  she  was  the  same.  Meanwhile  her  real 
life  was  not  dead,  only  dormant.  For  some  years  she  tried 
to  change  the  situation ;  she  made  little  appeals  to  him,  en- 
deavoured timidly  to  force  him  to  need  her,  even  on  one 
occasion  threatened  to  sleep  in  a  separate  room.  The  memory 
of  that  little  episode  still  terrified  her.  His  incredulity  had 
only  been  equalled  by  his  anger.  It  was  just  as  though  some 
one  had  threatened  to  deprive  him  of  his  morning  tub.  .  .  . 

Then,  when  she  saw  that  this  was  of  no  avail,  she  had 
concentrated  herself  upon  her  children,  and  especially  upon 
Falk.  For  a  while  she  had  fancied  that  she  was  satisfied. 
Suddenly — and  the  discovery  was  awful — she  was  aware  that 
Falk's  affection  all  turned  towards  his  father  rather  than 
towards  her.  Her  son  despised  her  and  disregarded  her  as 
his  father  had  done.  She  did  not  love  Falk  tlie  less,  but 
she  ceased  to  expect  anything  from  him — and  this  new  loss 
she  put  down  to  her  husband's  account. 

It  was  shortly  after  she  made  this  discovery  that  the  affair 
of  the  primroses  occurred. 

Many  a  woman  now  would  have  shown  her  hostility,  but 
Mrs.  Brandon  was,  by  nature,  a  woman  who  showed  nothing. 
She  did  not  even  show  anything  to  herself,  but  all  the  deeper, 
because  it  found  no  expression,  did  her  hatred  penetrate.  She 
scored  now  little  marks  against  him  for  everything  that  he 
did.  She  did  not  say  to  herself  that  a  day  of  vengeance  was 
coming,  she  did  not  think  of  anything  so  melodramatic,  she 
expected  nothing  of  her  future  at  all — but  the  marks  were 
there. 

The  situation  was  developed  by  Falk's  return  from  Oxford. 
Wljen  ho  was  away  her  love  for  him  seemed  to  her  simply 
all  in  the  world  that  she  possessed.  He  wrote  to  her  very 
seldom,  but  she  made  her  Sunday  letters  to  him  the  centre 
of  her  week,  and  wrote  as  though  they  were  a  passionately 
devoted  mother  and  son.  She  allowed  herself  this  little 
gentle  deception — it  was  her  only  one. 

But  when  ho  returned  and  was  in  the  house  it  was  more 


ONE  PRELUDE  85 

difficult  to  cheat  herself.  She  saw  at  once  that  he  had  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  that  he  was  engaged  in  some  pursuit  that 
he  kept  from  every  one.  She  discovered,  too,  that  she  was 
the  one  of  whom  he  was  afraid,  and  rightly  so,  the  Arch- 
deacon being  incapable  of  discovering  any  one's  pursuits 
so  long  as  he  was  engaged  on  one  of  his  own.  Falk's  fear 
of  her  perception  brought  about  a  new  situation  between 
them.  He  was  not  now  oblivious  of  her  presence  as  he  had 
been.  He  tried  to  discover  whether  she  knew  anything. 
She  found  him  often  watching  her,  half  in  fear  and  half  in 
defiance. 

The  thought  that  he  might  be  engaged  now  upon  some  plan 
of  his  own  in  which  she  might  share  excited  her  and  gave 
her  something  new  to  live  for.  She  did  not  care  what  his 
plan  might  be;  however  dangerous,  however  wicked,  she 
would  assist  him.  Her  moral  sense  had  never  been  very 
deeply  developed  in  her.  Her  whole  character  was  based 
on  her  relations  with  individuals;  for  any  one  she  loved 
she  would  commit  murder,  theft  or  blasphemy.  She  had 
never  had  any  one  to  love  except  Ealk. 

She  despised  the  Archdeacon  the  more  because  he  now 
perceived  nothing.  Under  his  very  nose  the  thing  was,  and 
he  was  sublimely  contented.  How  she  hated  that  content, 
and  how  she  despised  it! 

About  a  week  after  the  affair  of  the  elephants,  Mrs. 
Combermere  asked  her  to  tea.  She  disliked  Mrs.  Comber- 
mere,  but  she  went  to  tea  there  because  it  was  easier  than  not 
going.  She  disliked  Mrs.  Combermere  especially  because  it 
was  in  her  house  that  she  heard  silly,  feminine  praise  of  her 
husband.  It  amused  her,  however,  to  think  of  the  amazed 
sensation  there  would  be,  did  she  one  day  burst  out  before 
them  all  and  tell  them  what  she  really  thought  of  the  Arch- 
deacon. 

Of  course  she  would  never  do  that,  but  she  had  often  out- 
lined the  speech  in  her  mind. 

Mrs.  Combermere  also  lived  in  the  Precincts,  so  that  Mrs. 


86  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Brandon  had  not  far  to  go.  Before  she  arrived  there  a  little 
conversation  took  place  between  tlie  lady  of  tlie  house,  Miss 
Stiles,  Aliss  Dobell  and  Dr.  Puddifoot,  that  her  presence 
would  most  certainly  have  hindered.  Mrs.  Combermere  was 
once  described  by  some  one  as  "constructed  in  concrete" ; 
and  that  was  not  a  bad  description  of  her,  so  solid,  so  square 
and  so  unsliakable  and  unbeatable  was  she.  She  wore  stiff 
white  collars  like  a  man's,  broad  thick  boots,  short  skirts 
and  a  belt  at  her  waist.  Her  black  hair  was  brushed  straight 
back  from  her  forehead,  she  had  rather  small  brown  eyes,  a 
largo  nose  and  a  large  mouth.  Her  voice  was  a  deep  bass. 
She  had  some  hair  on  her  upper  lip,  and  thick,  strong,  very 
white  hands.  She  liked  to  walk  down  the  High  Street,  a 
silver-topped  cane  in  her  hand,  a  company  of  barking  dogs 
at  her  heels,  and  a  hat,  with  large  hat-pins,  set  a  little 
on  one  side  of  her  head.  She  had  a  hearty  laugh,  rather 
like  the  Archdeacon's.  Dr.  Puddifoot  was  our  doctor  for 
many  years  and  brought  many  of  my  generation  into  the 
world.  Ho  was  a  tall,  broad,  loose-set  man,  who  always 
wore  tweeds  of  a  bright  colour. 

Mrs.  Combermere  cared  nothing  for  her  surroundings, 
and  her  house  was  never  very  tidy.  She  bullied  her  servants, 
but  they  liked  her  because  she  gave  good  wages  and  fulfilled 
her  promises.  She  was  the  first  woman  in  Polchester  to 
smoke  cigarettes.  It  was  even  said  that  she  smoked  cigars, 
but  no  one,  I  tliink,  ever  saw  her  do  this. 

On  this  afternoon  she  subjected  !Miss  Stiles  to  a  magisterial 
inquiry;  Miss  Stiles  had  on  the  preceding  evening  given  a 
little  supper  party,  and  no  one  in  Polchester  did  anything 
of  the  kind  without  having  to  render  account  to  Mrs.  Comber- 
mere afterwards.  They  all  sat  round  the  fire,  because  it  was 
a  cold  day.  Mrs.  Combermere  sat  on  a  straight-backed 
chair,  tilting  it  fonvard,  her  skirt  drawn  up  to  her  knees, 
her  thick-stockinged  \og&  and  big  boots  for  all  the  world  to 

800. 

"Well,  Ellen,  whom  did  you  have?" 


ONE  PRELUDE  87 

"Ronder  and  his  aunt,  the  Bentinck-Majors,  Charlotte 
Ryle  and  Major  Drake." 

"Sorry  I  couldn't  have  been  there.  What  did  you  give 
them  ?" 

"Soup,  fish  salad,  cutlets,  chocolate  souffle,  sardines  on 
toast" 

"What  drink?" 

"Sherry,  claret,  lemonade  for  Charlotte,  whisky." 

"Any  catastrophes?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.    Bentinck-Major  sang  afterwards." 

"Hum — not  sorry  I  missed  that.    When  was  it  over?" 

"About  eleven." 

"What  did  you  ask  them  for?" 

"For  the  Ronders." 

Mrs.  Combermere,  raising  one  foot,  kicked  a  coal  into 
blaze. 

"Tea  will  be  in  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  'Now,  I'll  tell  you  for 
your  good,  my  dear  Ellen,  that  I  don't  like  your  Render." 

Miss  Stiles  laughed.  "Oh,  you  needn't  mind  me,  Betsj. 
You  never  have.    Why  don't  you  ?" 

"In  the  first  place,  he's  stupid." 

Miss  Stiles  laughed  again. 

"N^ever  wronger  in  your  life.  I  thought  you  were  smarter 
than  that." 

Mrs.  Combermere  smacked  her  knee.  "I  may  be  wrong. 
I  often  am.  I  take  prejudices,  I  know.  Secondly,  he's 
fat  and  soft — too  like  the  typical  parson." 

"It's  an  assumed  disguise — however,  go  on." 

"Third,  I  hear  he  agrees  with  everything  one  says." 

"You  hear  ?    You've  not  talked  to  him  yourself,  then  ?" 

Mrs.  Combermere  raised  her  head  as  the  door  opened  and 
the  tea  came  in. 

"No.  I've  only  seen  him  in  Cathedral.  But  I've  called, 
and  he's  coming  to-day." 

Miss  Stiles  smiled  in  her  own  dark  and  mysterious  way. 


88  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

*^ell,  Betsy,  my  dear,  I  leave  you  to  find  it  all  out  for 
yourself.  ...  I  keep  my  secrets." 

"If  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Corabermere,  getting  up  and  going 
to  the  tea-table,  "it's  the  first  time  you  ever  have.  And 
Ellen,"  she  went  on,  "I've  a  bone  to  pick.  I  won't  have  you 
laughing  at  my  dear  Archdeacon." 

"Laughing  at  your  Archdeacon  ?"  Miss  Stiles'  voice  was 
softer  and  slower  than  any  complaining  cow's. 

"Yes.  I  hear  you've  all  been  laughing  about  the  elephant. 
That  was  a  thing  that  might  have  happened  to  any  one." 

Puddifoot  laughed.  "The  point  is,  though,  that  it  hap- 
pened to  Brandon.    That's  the  joke.    And  his  new  top  hat." 

"Well,  I  won't  have  it.  Milk,  doctor?  Miss  Dobell  and 
I  agree  that  it's  a  shame." 

Miss  Dobell,  who  was  in  appearance  like  one  of  those  neat 
silk  umbrellas  with  the  head  of  a  parrot  for  a  handle,  and 
whose  voice  was  like  the  running  brook  both  for  melody  and 
monotony,  thus  suddenly  appealed  to,  blushed,  stammered, 
and  finally  admitted  that  the  iVrchdeacon  was,  in  her  opinion, 
a  hero. 

"That's  not  exactly  the  point,  dear  Mary,"  said  Miss 
Stiles.  "The  point  is,  surely,  that  an  elephant  straight  from 
the  desert  ate  our  best  Archdeacon's  best  hat  in  the  High 
Street.  You  must  admit  that  that's  a  laughable  circum- 
stance in  this  the  sixtieth  year  of  our  good  Queen's  reign. 
I,  for  one,  intend  to  laugh." 

"No,  you  don't,  Ellen,"  and,  to  every  one's  surprise,  Mrs. 
Combermere's  voice  was  serious.  "I  mean  what  I  say.  I'm 
not  joking  at  all.  Brandon  may  have  his  faults,  but  this 
to^\^l  and  everything  decent  in  it  hangs  by  him.  Take  him 
away  and  the  place  drops  to  pieces.  I  suppose  you  think 
you're  going  to  introduce  your  Ronders  as  up-to-date  rivals. 
Wo  prefer  things  as  they  are,  thank  you." 

Miss  Stiles'  already  bright  (X)louring  was  a  little  brighter. 
She  knew  hor  Betsy  Combermere,  but  she  resented  rebukes 
before  Puddifoot 


ONE  PKELUDE  89 

"Then,"  she  said,  "if  he  means  all  that  to  the  place,  he'd 
better  look  after  his  son  more  efficiently." 

"And  exactly  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mrs. 
Combermere. 

"Oh,  everybody  knows,"  said  Miss  Stiles,  looking  round 
to  Miss  Dobell  and  the  doctor  for  support,  "that  young 
Brandon  is  spending  the  whole  of  his  time  down  in  Sea- 
town,  and  that  Miss  Annie  Hogg  is  not  entirely  uncon- 
nected with  his  visits." 

"Keally,  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Combermere,  bringing  her  fist 
down  upon  the  table,  "you're  a  disgusting  woman.  Yes,  you 
are,  and  I  won't  take  it  back,  however  much  you  ask  me  to. 
All  the  worst  scandal  in  this  place  comes  from  you.  If  it 
weren't  for  you  we  shouldn't  be  so  exactly  like  every  novelist's 
Cathedral  town.  But  I  warn  you,  I  won't  have  you  talking 
about  Brandon.  His  son's  only  a  boy,  and  the  handsomest 
male  in  the  place  by  the  way — present  company,  of  course, 
excepted.  He's  only  been  home  a  few  months,  and  you're 
after  him  already  with  your  stories.    I  won't  have  it " 

Miss  Stiles  rose,  her  fingers  trembling  as  she  drew  on 
her  gloves. 

"Well,  I  won't  stay  here  to  be  insulted,  anyway.  You 
may  have  known  me  a  number  of  years,  Betsy,  but  that 
doesn't  allow  you  all  the  privileges.  The  only  matter  with 
me  is  that  I  say  what  I  think.  You  started  the  business,  I 
believe,  by  insulting  my  friends." 

"Sit  down,  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Combermere,  laughing. 
"Don't  be  a  fool.  Who's  insulting  your  friends?  You'd 
insult  them  yourself  if  they  were  only  successful  enough. 
You  can  have  your  Bonder." 

The  door  opened  and  the  maid  announced:  "Canon 
Bonder." 

Every  one  was  conscious  of  the  dramatic  fitness  of  this, 
and  no  one  more  so  than  Mrs.  Combermere.  Bonder  entered 
the  room,  however,  quite  unaware  of  anything  apparently, 
except  that  he  was  feeling  very  well  and  expected  amuse- 


90  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

mont  from  his  company.  Ho  presented  precisely  the  picture 
of  a  nice  contented  clergyman  who  might  be  baffled  by  a 
school  treat  but  was  thoroughly  "up"  to  afternoon  tea.  He 
seemed  a  little  stouter  than  when  he  had  first  come  to  Pol- 
chester,  and  his  large  spectacles  were  as  round  as  two  young 
moons. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Combermere  ?  I  do  hope  you  will 
forgive  my  aunt,  but  she  has  a  bad  headache.  She  finds 
Poh-hester  a  little  relaxing." 

Mrs.  Combermere  did  not  get  up,  but  stared  at  him  from 
behind  her  tea-table.  That  was  a  stare  that  has  frightened 
many  people  in  its  time,  and  to-day  it  was  especially  challeng- 
ing. She  was  annoyed  with  Ellen  Stiles,  and  here,  in  front 
of  her,  was  the  cause  of  her  annoyance. 

They  faced  one  another,  and  the  room  behind  them  was 
aware  that  Mrs.  Combermere,  at  any  rate,  had  declared 
battle.    Of  what  Render  was  aware  no  one  knew. 

"How  do  you  do,  Canon  Render?  I'm  delighted  that 
you've  honoured  my  poor  little  house.  I  hear  that  you're  a 
busy  man.  I'm  all  the  more  proud  that  you  can  spare  me 
half  an  hour." 

She  kept  him  standing  there,  hoping,  perhaps,  that  he 
would  be  consciously  awkward  and  embarrassed.  He  was 
completely  at  his  ease. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not  busy.  I'm  a  very'  lazy  man."  He  looked 
down  at  her,  smiling,  aware,  apparently,  of  no  one  else 
in  the  room.  "I'm  always  meaning  to  pull  myself  up.  But 
I'm  too  old  for  improvement." 

"We're  all  busy  people  here,  although  you  mayn't  think 
it,  Canon  Render.  But  I'm  afraid  you're  giving  a  false 
account  of  yourself.    I've  heard  of  you." 

"Nothing  but  good,  I  hope." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  That  depends.  I  erpect  you're 
going  to  shake  us  all  up  and  teach  us  improvement." 

"Dear  me,  no!  I  come  to  you  for  instruction.  I  haven't 
an  idea  in  the  world." 


ONE  PRELUDE  91 

"Too  much  modesty  is  a  dangerous  thing.  Nobody's 
modest  in  Polchester." 

''Then  I  shall  be  Polchester's  first  modest  man.  But 
I'm  not  modest.     I  simply  speak  the  truth." 

Mrs.  Combermere  smiled  grimly.  "There,  too,  you  will 
be  the  exception.     We  none  of  us  speak  the  truth  here." 

"Really,  Mrs.  Combermere,  you're  giving  Polchester  a 
dreadful  character."  He  laughed,  but  did  not  take  his  eyes 
away  from  her.  "I  hope  that  you've  been  here  so  long  that 
you've  forgotten  what  the  place  is  like.  I  believe  in  first 
impressions." 

"So  do  I,"  she  said,  very  grimly  indeed. 

"Well,  in  a  year's  time  we  shall  see  which  of  us  is  right. 
I'll  be  quite  willing  to  admit  defeat." 

"Oh,  a  year's  time!"  She  laughed  more  pleasantly.  "A 
great  deal  can  happen  in  a  year.  You  may  be  a  bishop  by 
then,  Canon  Render." 

"Ah,  that  would  be  more  than  I  deserve,"  he  answered 
quite  gravely. 

The  little  duel  was  over.  She  turned  around,  introduced 
him  to  Miss  Dobell  and  Puddifoot,  both  of  whom,  however, 
he  had  already  met.  He  sat  down,  very  happily,  near  the 
fire  and  listened  to  Miss  Dobell's  shrill  proclamation  of  her 
adoration  of  Browning.  Conversation  became  general,  and 
was  concerned  first  with  the  Jubilee  and  the  preparations 
for  it,  afterwards  with  the  state  of  South  Africa,  Lord 
Penrhyn's  quarries,  and  bicycling.  Every  one  had  a  good 
deal  to  say  about  this  last  topic,  and  the  strange  costumes 
which  ladies,  so  the  papers  said,  were  wearing  in  Battersea 
Park  when  out  on  their  morning  ride. 

Miss  Dobell  said  that  "it  was  too  disgraceful,"  to  which 
Mrs.  Combermere  replied  "Fudge!  As  though  every  one 
didn't  know  by  this  time  that  women  had  legs !" 

Everything,  in  fact,  went  very  well,  although  Ellen  Stiles 
observed  to  herself  with  a  certain  malicious  pleasure  that 


92  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


their  hostess  was  not  entirely  at  her  ease,  was  "a  little  ruffled 
about  something." 

Soon  two  more  visitors  arrived — first  Mr.  Morris,  then 
Mrs.  Brandon.  They  came  close  upon  one  another's  heels, 
and  it  was  at  once  evident  that  they  would,  neither  of  them, 
alter  very  considerably  the  room's  atmosphere.  No  one  ever 
paid  any  attention  to  Mrs.  Brandon  in  Polchester,  and 
although  ^Ir.  Morris  had  been  some  time  now  in  the  town, 
he  was  so  shy  and  retiring  and  quiet  that  no  one  was,  as 
yet,  very  distinctly  aware  of  him.  Mrs.  Combcrmere  was 
occupied  with  her  own  thoughts  and  the  others  were  talking 
very  happily  beside  the  fire,  so  it  soon  happened  that  Morris 
and  ^Irs.  Brandon  were  sitting  by  themselves  in  the  window. 

There  occurred  then  a  revelation.  .  .  .  That  is  perhaps  a 
portentous  word,  but  what  else  can  one  call  it?  It  is  a 
platitude,  of  course,  to  say  that  there  is  probably  no  one 
alive  who  does  not  remember  some  occasion  of  a  sudden  com- 
munion with  another  human  being  that  was  so  beautiful, 
80  touching,  so  transcendentally  above  human  affairs  that  a 
revelation  was  the  only  definition  for  it.  Afterwards,  when 
analysis  plays  its  part,  one  may  talk  about  physical  attrac- 
tions, about  common  intellectual  interests,  about  spiritual 
bonds,  about  what  you  please,  but  one  knows  that  the  essence 
of  that  meeting  is  undefined. 

It  may  be  quite  enough  to  say  about  Morris  and  Mrs. 
Brandon,  that  they  were  both  very  lonely  people.  You  may 
say,  too,  that  there  was  in  both  of  them  an  utterly  unsatisfied 
longing  to  have  some  one  to  protect  and  care  for.  I^ot  her 
husband  nor  Falk  nor  Joan  needed  Mrs.  Brandon  in  the 
least — and  the  Archdeacon  did  not  approve  of  dogs  in  the 
house.  Or  you  may  say,  if  you  like,  that  these  two  liked 
the  look  of  one  another,  and  leave  it  at  that.  Still  the 
revelation  remains — and  all  the  tragedy  and  unhappiness 
and  bitterness  that  that  revelation  involved  remains  tcx).  .  .  . 

This  was,  of  course,  not  the  first  time  that  they  had  met. 
One©  before  at  Mrs.  Combcrmero's  they  had  been  introduced 


ONE  PRELUDE  93 

and  talked  together  for  a  moment ;  but  on  that  occasion  there 
had  been  no  revelation. 

They  did  not  say  very  much  now.  Mrs.  Brandon  asked 
Morris  whether  he  liked  Polchester  and  he  said  yes.  They 
talked  about  the  Cathedral  and  the  coming  Jubilee.  Morris 
said  that  he  had  met  Falk.  Mrs.  Brandon,  colouring  a  little, 
asked  was  he  not  handsome?  She  said  that  he  was  a  re- 
markable boy,  very  independent,  that  was  why  he  had  not 
got  on  very  well  at  Oxford.  .  .  .  He  was  a  tremendous 
comfort  to  her,  she  said.  When  he  went  away  .  .  .  but  she 
stopped  suddenly. 

Not  looking  at  him,  she  said  that  sometimes  one  felt 
lonely  even  though  there  was  a  great  deal  to  do,  as  there 
always  was  in  a  town  like  Polchester. 

Yes,  Morris  said  that  he  knew  that.  And  that  was  really 
all.  There  were  long  pauses  in  their  conversation,  pauses 
that  were  like  the  little  wooden  hammerings  on  the  stage 
before  the  curtain  rises. 

Mrs.  Brandon  said  that  she  hoped  that  he  would  come 
and  see  her,  and  he  said  that  he  would.  Their  hands  touched, 
and  they  both  felt  as  though  the  room  had  suddenly  closed 
in  upon  them  and  become  very  dim,  blotting  the  other  people 
out. 

Then  Mrs.  Brandon  got  up  to  go.  Afterwards,  when  she 
looked  back  to  this,  she  remembered  that  she  had  looked, 
for  some  unknown  reason,  especially  at  Canon  Ponder,  as 
she  stood  there  saying  good-bye. 

She  decided  that  she  did  not  like  him.  Then  she  went 
away,  and  Mrs.  Combermere  was  glad  that  she  had  gone. 

Of  all  the  dull  women.  .  .  , 


CHAPTER  VI 

8EATOWN    MIST    AND    CATHEDRAL    DUST 

FALK  BIl^VNDON  knew  quite  well  that  his  mother  was 
watching  him. 

It  was  a  strange  truth  that  until  this  return  of  his  from 
Oxford  ho  had  never  considered  his  mother  at  all.  It  was 
not  that  he  had  grown  to  disregard  her,  as  do  many  sons, 
because  of  the  monotonous  regularity  of  her  presence.  Nor 
was  it  that  he  despised  her  because  he  seemed  so  vastly  to 
have  outgrown  her.  He  had  not  been  unkind  nor  patronis- 
ing nor  contemptuous — he  had  simply  not  yet  thought  about 
her.  The  circumstances  of  his  recent  return,  however,  had 
forced  him  to  consider  every  one  in  the  house.  He  had  his 
secret  preoccupation  that  seemed  so  absorbing  and  devastat- 
ing to  him  that  he  could  not  believe  that  every  one  around 
him  would  not  guess  it  He  soon  discovered  that  his  father 
was  too  cock-sure  and  his  sister  too  innocent  to  guess  any- 
thing. Now  he  was  not  himself  a  perceptive  man ;  he  had, 
after  all,  seen  as  yet  very  little  of  the  world,  and  he  had  a 
great  deal  of  his  father's  self-confidence;  nevertheless,  ho 
was  just  perceptive  enough  to  perceive  that  his  mother  was 
thinking  about  him,  was  watching  him,  was  waiting  to  see 
what  ho  would  do.  .  .  . 

His  secret  was  quite  simply  that,  for  the  last  year,  he  had 
been  devastated  by  the  consciousness  of  Annie  Hogg,  the 
daughter  of  the  landlord  of  "The  Dog  and  Pilchard,"  Yes. 
devastated  was  the  word.  It  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her  or,  indeed,  had  any  analysed  emotion 
for  her — he  was  aware  of  her  always,  was  disturbed  by  her 

94 


PEELUDE  95 

always,  could  not  keep  away  from  her,  wanted  something 
in  connection  with  her  far  deeper  than  mere  love-making 

What  he  wanted  he  did  not  know.  He  could  not  keep 
away  from  her,  and  yet  when  he  was  with  her  nothing 
occurred.  She  did  not  apparently  care  for  him ;  he  was  not 
even  sure  that  he  wanted  her  to.  At  Oxford  during  his  last 
term  he  had  thought  of  her — incessantly,  a  hot  pain  at  his 
heart.  He  had  not  invited  the  disturbance  that  had  sent  him 
down,  but  he  had  welcomed  it. 

Every  day  he  went  to  "The  Dog  and  Pilchard."  He  drank 
but  little  and  talked  to  no  one.  He  just  leaned  up  against 
the  wall  and  looked  at  her.  Sometimes  he  had  a  word  with 
her.  He  knew  that  they  must  all  be  speaking  of  it.  Maybe 
the  whole  town  was  chattering.  He  could  not  think  of  that. 
He  had  no  plans,  no  determination,  no  resolve — and  he  was 
desperately  unhappy.  .  .  . 

Into  this  strange  dark  confusion  the  thought  of  his  mother 
drove  itself.  He  had  from  the  very  beginning  been  aware 
of  his  father  in  this  connection.  In  his  own  selfish  way  he 
loved  his  father,  and  he  shared  in  his  pride  and  self-content. 
He  was  proud  of  his  father  for  being  what  he  was,  for  his 
good-natured  contempt  of  other  people,  for  his  handsome 
body  and  his  dominance  of  the  town.  He  could  understand 
that  his  father  should  feel  as  he  did,  and  he  did  honestly 
consider  him  a  magnificent  man  and  far  above  every  one  else 
in  the  place.  But  that  did  not  mean  that  he  ever  listened 
to  anything  that  his  father  said.  He  pleased  himself  in  what 
he  did,  and  laughed  at  his  father's  temper. 

He  had  perceived  from  the  first  that  this  connection  of 
his  with  Annie  Hogg  might  do  his  father  very  much  harm, 
and  he  did  not  want  to  harm  him.  The  thought  of  this  did 
not  mean  that  for  a  moment  he  contemplated  dropping  the 
affair  because  of  his  father — no,  indeed — but  the  thought  of 
the  old  man,  as  he  termed  him,  added  dimly  to  his  general 
unhappiness.  He  appreciated  the  way  that  his  father  had 
taken  his  return  from  Oxford.     The  old  man  was  a  sports- 


96  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

mail.  It  was  a  great  pity  that  he  should  have  to  make  him 
unhappy  over  this  business.  But  there  it  was — you  couldn't 
alter  things. 

It  was  this  fatalistic  philosophy  that  finally  ruled  every- 
thing with  him.  ''What  must  be  must"  If  things  went 
wrong  he  had  his  courage,  and  he  was  helped  too  by  his 
contempt  for  the  world.  .  .  . 

He  knew  his  father,  but  he  was  aware  now  that  he  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  his  mother. 

"What's  she  thinking  about?"  he  asked  himself. 

One  afternoon  he  was  about  to  go  to  Seatown  when,  in 
the  passage  outside  his  bedroom,  he  met  his  mother.  They 
both  stopped  as  though  they  had  something  to  say  to  one 
another.  He  did  not  look  at  all  like  her  son,  so  fair,  tall 
and  aloof,  as  though  even  in  his  own  house  he  must  be  on 
his  guard,  prepared  to  challenge  any  one  who  threatened  his 
private  plans. 

"She's  like  a  little  mouse,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as 
though  he  were  seeing  her  for  the  first  time,  "preparing  to 
run  off  into  the  wainscot."  He  was  conscious,  too,  of  her 
quiet  clothes  and  shy  preoccupied  timidity — all  of  it  he 
seemed  to  see  for  the  first  time,  a  disguise  for  some  purpose 
as  secret,  perhaps,  as  his  own. 

"Oh,  Falk,"  she  said,  and  stopped,  and  then  went  on  with 
the  question  that  she  so  often  asked  him: 

"Is  there  anything  you  want?" 

"No,  mother,  thank  you.     I'm  just  going  out." 

"Oh,  yes.  .  .  ."  She  still  stayed  there  nervously  looking 
up  at  him. 

"I  was  wondering Are  you  going  into  the  town?" 

"Yes,  mother.     Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"No,  thank  you."     Still  she  did  not  move. 

"Joan's  out,"  she  said.  Then  she  wont  on  quickly,  "I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  if  there  were  anything " 

"Why,  of  course."  He  laughed.  "What  exactly  do  you 
mean  ?" 


ONE  PKELUDE  97 

"N"othing,  dear.     Only  I  like  to  know  about  your  plans." 

"Plans  ?    I  haven't  any." 

"1^0,  but  I  always  think  you  may  be  going  away  suddenly. 
Perhaps  I  could  help  you.  I  know  it  isn't  very  much  that 
I  can  do,  but  anything  you  told  me  I  think  I  could  help 
you  about.  .  .  .  I'd  like  to  help  you." 

He  could  see  that  she  had  been  resolving  for  some  time 
to  speak  to  him,  and  that  this  little  appeal  was  the  result 
of  a  desperate  determination.     He  was  touched. 

"That's  all  right,  mother.  I  suppose  father  and  you  think 
I  oughtn't  to  be  hanging  around  here  doing  nothing." 

"Oh,  your  father  hasn't  said  anything  to  me.  I  don't 
know  what  he  thinks.  But  I  should  miss  you  if  you  went. 
It  is  nice  for  us  having  you,  although,  of  course,  it  must  seem 
slow  to  you  here." 

He  stood  back  against  the  wall,  looking  past  her  out 
through  the  window  that  showed  the  grey  sky  of  a  misty 
day. 

"Well,  it's  true  that  I've  got  to  settle  about  doing  some- 
thing soon.  I  can't  be  home  like  this  for  ever.  There's  a 
man  I  know  in  London  wants  me  to  go  in  for  a  thing  with 
him.  .  .  ." 

"What  kind  of  a  thing,  dear?" 

"It's  to  do  with  the  export  trade.  Travelling  about.  I 
should  like  that.  I'm  a  bit  restless,  I'm  afraid.  I  should 
want  to  put  some  money  into  it,  of  course,  but  the  governor 
will  let  me  have  something.  .  .  .  He  wants  me  to  go  into 
Parliament." 

"Parliament?" 

"Yes,"  Talk  laughed.  "That's  his  latest  idea.  He  was 
talking  about  it  the  other  night.  Of  course,  that's  foolish- 
ness.    It's  not  my  line  at  all.     I  told  him  so." 

"I  wouldn't  like  you  to  go  away  altogether,"  she  repeated. 
"It  would  make  a  great  difference  to  me." 

"Would  it  really  ?"  He  had  a  strange  mysterious  impulse 
to  speak  to  her  about  Annie  Hogg.     The  thought  of  his 


98  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

mother  and  Annie  Hogg  together  showed  him  at  once  how 
impossible  that  was.  They  were  in  separate  worlds.  He 
was  suddenly  angry  at  the  difficulties  tliat  life  was  making 
for  him  without  his  own  wish.  "Oh,  I'll  be  here  some  time 
yet,  mother,"  he  said.  "Well,  I  must  get  along  now.  I've 
got  an  appointment  with  a  fellow." 

She  smiled  and  disappeared  into  her  room. 

All  the  way  into  Seatown  he  was  baffled  and  irritated  by 
this  little  conversation.  It  seemed  that  you  could  not  dis- 
regard people  by  simply  determining  to  disregard  them.  All 
the  time  behind  you  and  them  some  force  was  insisting  on 
places  being  taken,  connections  being  formed.  One  was 
simply  a  bally  pawn  ...  a  bally  pawn.  .  .  . 

But  what  was  his  mother  thinking?  Had  some  one  been 
talking  to  her?  Perhaps  already  she  knew  about  Annie. 
But  what  could  she  know  ?  Girls  like  Annie  were  outside 
her  ken.  What  could  his  mother  know  about  life  ?  The 
day  did  not  help  his  dissatisfaction.  The  fog  had  not 
descended  upon  the  town,  but  it  had  sent  as  its  foreniimer 
a  wet  sea  mist,  dim  and  intangible,  depressing  because  it 
removed  all  beauty  and  did  not  leave  even  challenging  ugli- 
ness in  its  place. 

On  the  beet  of  days  Seatown  was  not  beautiful.  I  have 
read  in  books  romantic  descriptions  of  Glebeshire  coves, 
Glelx»8hire  towns  with  the  romantic  Inn,  the  sanded  floor, 
fishermen  with  gold  rings  in  their  ears  and  strange  oaths 
upon  their  lips.  In  one  book  I  remember  there  was  a  fine 
picture  of  such  a  place,  with  beautiful  girls  dancing  and 
mysterious  old  men  telling  mysterious  talcs  about  ghosts  and 
goblins,  and,  of  course,  somewhere  in  the  distance  some  one 
was  singing  a  chanty,  and  the  moon  was  rising,  and  there 
was  a  nice  little  piece  of  Glebeshire  dialect  thrown  in.  All 
very  pretty.  ,  .  .  Seatown  cannot  claim  such  prottinoss. 
Perhaps  onco  long  ago,  when  there  were  only  the  Cathedral, 
the  Castle,  the  Rock,  and  a  few  cottages  down  by  tlie  river, 
when,  at  night-tide,  strange  foreign  ships  came  up  from  the 


ONE 


PKELUDE  99 


sea,  when  tlie  woods  were  wild  forest  and  the  downs  were  bare 
and  savage,  Seatown  had  its  romance,  but  that  was  long  ago. 
Seatown,  in  these  latter  days,  was  a  place  of  bad  drainage, 
bad  drinking,  bad  living  and  bad  dying.  The  men  who 
haunted  its  dirty,  narrow  little  streets  were  loafers  and  idlers 
and  castaways.  The  women  were,  most  of  them,  no  better 
than  they  should  be,  and  the  children  were  the  most  slatternly 
and  ill-bred  in  the  whole  of  Glebeshire.  Small  credit  to  the 
Canons  and  the  Town  Councillors  and  the  prosperous  farmers 
that  it  was  so,  but  in  their  defence  it  might  be  urged  that 
it  needed  a  very  valiant  Canon  and  the  most  fearless  of  Town 
Councillors  to  disturb  that  little  nest.  And  the  time  came 
when  it  was  disturbed.  .  .  . 

Even  the  Pol,  a  handsome  river  enough  out  beyond  the 
town  in  the  reaches  of  the  woods,  was  no  pretty  sight  r,t 
low  tide  when  there  was  nothing  to  see  but  a  thin,  sluggish 
grey  stream  filtering  through  banks  of  mud  to  its  destination, 
the  sea.  At  high  tide  the  river  beat  up  against  the  crazy 
stone  wall  that  bordered  Pennicent  Street ;  and  on  the  further 
side  there  were  green  fields  and  a  rising  hill  with  a  feathery 
wood  to  crown  it.  Erom  the  river,  coming  up  through  the 
green  banks,  Seatown  looked  picturesque,  with  its  disordered 
cottages  scrambling  in  confusion  at  the  tail  of  the  rock  and 
the  Cathedral  and  Castle  nobly  dominating  it.  That  distant 
view  is  the  best  thing  to  be  said  for  Seatown. 

To-day,  in  the  drizzling  mist,  the  place  was  horribly  de- 
pressing. Falk  plunged  down  into  Bridge  Street  as  into  a 
damp  stuffy  well.  Here  some  of  the  houses  had  once  been 
fine;  there  were  porticoes  and  deep-set  doors  and  bow- 
windows,  making  them  poor  relations  of  the  handsome  benev- 
olent Georgian  houses  in  Orange  Street.  The  street,  top- 
tilting  down  to  the  river,  was  slovenly  with  dirt  and  careless- 
ness. Many  of  the  windows  were  broken,  their  panes  stuffed 
with  paper;  washing  hung  from  house  to  house.  The 
windows  that  were  not  broken  were  hermetically  sealed  and 
filled  with  grimy  plants  and  ferns,  and  here  and  there  a 


100  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


photograph  of  an  embarrassed  sailor  or  a  smiling  married 
couple  or  an  overdressed  young  woman  placed  face  outward 
to  the  street  Bridge  Street  tumbled  with  a  dirty  absent- 
mindodnes*  into  Pennicent  Street  This,  the  main  thorough- 
fare of  Seatown,  must  have  been  once  a  handsome  cobbled 
walk  by  the  river-side.  The  houses,  more  than  in  Bridge 
Street,  showed  by  their  pillared  doorways  and  their  faded 
rod  brick  that  they  had  once  been  gentlemen's  residences, 
with  gardens,  perhaps,  running  to  the  river's  edge  and  a 
fine  view  of  the  meadows  and  woods  beyond.  To-day  all 
was  shrouded  in  a  mist  that  was  never  stationary,  that  seemed 
alive  in  its  shifting  movement,  revealing  here  a  window, 
there  a  door,  now  a  chimney-pot,  now  steps  that  seemed  to 
lead  into  air,  and  the  river,  now  at  full  tide  and  lapping 
the  stone  wall,  seemed  its  drunken  bewildered  voice. 

"Bally  pawns,  that's  what  we  are,"  Falk  muttered  again. 
It  seemed  to  bo  the  logical  conclusion  of  the  thoughts  that 
had  worried  him,  likes  flies,  during  his  walk.  Some  one 
lurched  against  him  as  he  stayed  for  a  moment  to  search  for 
the  inn.  A  hot  spasm  of  anger  rose  in  him,  so  sudden  and 
fierce  that  he  was  frightened  by  it,  as  though  he  had  seen 
his  own  face  in  a  mirror.  But  he  said  nothing.  "Sorry," 
said  a  voice,  and  shadow  faded  into  shadow. 

He  found  the  "Dog  and  Pilchard"  easily  enough.  Just 
beyond  it  the  river  was  caught  into  a  kind  of  waterfall  by 
a  ridge  of  stone  that  projected  almost  into  mid-stream.  At 
high  tide  it  tumbled  over  this  obstruction  with  an  astonished 
splash  and  gurgle.  Even  when  the  river  was  at  its  lowest 
there  was  a  dim  chattering  struggle  at  this  point.  Falk 
always  connected  this  noise  with  the  inn  and  the  power  or 
enchantment  of  the  inn  that  held  him — "Black  Enchant- 
ment," perhaps.  He  was  to  hear  that  struggling  chatter 
of  the  river  until  his  dying  day. 

He  pushed  through  the  passage  and  turned  to  the  right 
into  the  bar.  .  A  damp  day  like  this  always  served  Hogg's 
trad&     The  gas  was  lit  and  sizzled  overhead  with  a  noise  as 


ONE  PEELTJDE  101 

though  it  commented  ironically  on  the  fatuity  of  the  human 
beings  beneath  it.  The  room  was  full,  but  most  of  the  men — 
seamen,  loafers,  a  country  man  or  two — crowded  up  to  the 
bar.  Falk  crossed  to  a  table  in  the  corner  near  the  window, 
his  accustomed  seat.  No  one  seemed  to  notice  him,  but 
soon  Hogg,  stout  and  smiling,  came  over  to  him.  No  one 
had  ever  seen  Samuel  Hogg  out  of  temper — no,  never,  not 
even  when  there  had  been  fighting  in  the  place  and  he  had 
been  compelled  to  eject  men,  by  force  of  arms,  through  the 
doors  and  windows.  There  had  not  been  many  fights  there. 
Men  were  afraid  of  him,  in  spite  of  his  imperturbable  good 
temper.  Men  said  of  him  that  he  would  stick  at  nothing, 
although  what  exactly  was  meant  by  that  no  one  knew. 

He  had  a  good  word  for  every  one;  no  crime  or  human 
failing  could  shock  him.  He  laughed  at  everything.  And 
yet  men  feared  him.  Perhaps  for  that  very  reason.  The 
worst  sinner  has  some  kind  of  standard  of  right  and  wrong. 
Himself  he  may  not  keep  it,  but  he  likes  to  see  it  there. 
"Oh,  he's  deep,"  was  Seatown's  verdict  on  Samuel  Hogg, 
and  it  is  certain  that  the  late  Mrs.  Hogg  had  not  been,  in 
spite  of  her  husband's  good  temper,  a  happy  woman. 

He  came  up  to  Falk  now,  smiling,  and  asked  him  what 
he  would  have.  "Nasty  day,"  he  said.  Falk  ordered  his 
drink.  Dimly  through  the  mist  and  thickened  air  the 
Cathedral  chimes  recorded  the  hour.  Funny  how  you  could 
hear  them  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  Polchester. 

"Likely  turn  to  rain  before  night,"  Hogg  said,  as  he 
turned  back  to  the  bar.  Falk  sat  there  watching.  Some  of 
the  men  he  knew,  some  he  did  not,  but  to-day  they  were  all 
shadows  to  him.  Strange  how,  from  the  moment  that  he 
crossed  the  threshold  of  that  place,  hot,  burning  excitement 
and  expectation  lapped  him  about,  swimming  up  to  him, 
engulfing  him,  swamping  him  body  and  soul.  He  sat  there 
drowned  in  it,  not  stirring,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  noise,  laughter,  swearing,  voices 


102  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

raised  and  dropped,  forming  a  kind  of  skyline,  and  above 
this  a  voice  telling  an  interminable  tale. 

Annie  Ilogg  came  in,  and  at  once  Falk's  throat  contracted 
and  his  heart  hammered  in  the  palms  of  his  hands.  She 
moved  about,  talking  to  the  men,  fetching  drinks,  uncon- 
cerned and  aloof  as  she  always  was.  Seen  there  in  the  mist 
of  the  overcrowded  and  evil-smelling  room,  there  was  nothing 
very  remarkable  about  her.  Stalwart  and  resolute  and  self- 
possessed  she  looked ;  sometimes  she  was  beautiful,  but  not 
now.  She  was  a  woman  at  whom  most  men  would  have 
looked  twice.  Her  expression  was  not  sullen  nor  disdainful ; 
in  that,  perhaps,  there  was  something  fine,  because  there  was 
life,  of  its  own  kind,  in  her  eyes,  and  independence  in  the 
carriage  of  her  head. 

Falk  never  took  his  eyes  from  her.  At  that  moment  she 
came  down  the  room  and  saw  him.  She  did  not  come  over 
to  him  at  once,  but  stopped  and  talked  to  some  one  at  another 
table.  At  last  slie  was  beside  him,  standing  up  against  his 
table  and  looking  over  his  head  at  the  window  behind  him. 

"Nasty  weather,  Mr.  Brandon,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was 
low  and  not  unpleasant;  although  she  rolled  her  r's  her 
Glebcshire  accent  was  not  very  strong,  and  she  spoke  slowly, 
as  though  she  were  trying  to  choose  her  words. 

"Yes,"  Falk  answered.     "Good  for  your  trade,  though." 

"Dirty  weather  always  brings  them  in,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  look  at  her. 

"Been  busy  to-day?" 

"Nothing  much  this  morning,"  she  answered.  "I've  been 
away  at  my  aunt's,  out  to  Borheddon,  these  last  two  days." 

"Yes.  I  saw  you  were  not  here,"  he  said.  "Did  you  have 
a  good  time?" 

"Middling,"  she  answered.  "My  aunt's  been  terrible  bad 
with  bronchitis  this  winter.  Poor  soul,  it'll  carry  her  oflF 
one  of  these  days,  I  reckon." 

"AVhat's  Borheddon  like?"  he  asked. 

*TCothing  much.     Nothing  to  do,  you  know.     But  I  like 


ONE  PKELUDE  103 

a  bit  of  quiet  just  for  a  day  or  two.  How've  you  been 
keeping,  Mr.  Brandon?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right.  I  shall  be  off  to  London  to  look  for 
a  job  one  of  these  days." 

He  looked  up  at  her  suddenly,  sharply,  as  though  he 
wanted  to  catch  her  interest.    But  she  showed  no  emotion. 

"Well,  I  expect  this  is  slow  for  you,  a  little  place  like  this. 
Plenty  going  on  in  London,  I  expect." 

"Yes.     Do  you  ever  think  you'd  like  to  go  there?" 

"Daresay  I  shall  one  of  these  days.  Never  know  your 
luck.  But  I'm  not  terrible  anxious.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  be 
getting  on." 

He  caught  her  eyes  and  held  them. 

"Come  back  for  a  moment  when  you're  less  busy.  I've 
got  something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

Very  slightly  the  colour  rose  in  her  dark  cheek. 

"All  right,"  she  said. 

When  she  had  gone  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  as  though  he 
had  surmounted  some  great  and  sudden  danger.  He  felt  that 
if  she  had  refused  to  come  he  would  have  risen  and  broken 
everything  in  the  place.  Now,  as  though  he  had,  by  that 
little  conversation  with  her,  reassured  himself  about  her,  he 
looked  around  the  room.  His  attention  was  at  once  attracted 
by  a  man  who  was  sitting  in  the  further  comer,  his  back 
against  the  wall,  opposite  to  him. 

This  was  a  man  remarkable  for  his  extreme  thinness,  for 
the  wild  lock  of  black  hair  that  fell  over  his  forehead  and 
almost  into  his  eyes,  and  for  a  certain  sort  of  threadbare  and 
dissolute  distinction  which  hung  about  him.  Falk  knew  him 
slightly.  His  name  was  Edmund  Davray,  and  he  had  lived 
in  Polchester  now  for  a  considerable  number  of  years.  He 
was  an  artist,  and  had  arrived  in  the  town  one  summer  on 
a  walking  tour  through  Glebeshire.  He  had  attracted  atten- 
tion at  once  by  the  quality  of  his  painting,  by  the  volubility 
of  his  manner,  and  by  his  general  air  of  being  a  person  of 
considerable  distinction.     His  surname  was  French,  but  no 


104  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

one  knew  anything  with  any  certainty  about  him.  Some- 
thing attracted  him  in  Polchester,  and  he  stayed.  He  soon 
gave  it  out  that  it  was  the  Cathedral  that  fascinated  him;  he 
painted  a  number  of  remarkable  sketches  of  the  nave,  the 
choir,  Saint  Margaret's  Chapel,  the  Black  Bishop's  Tomb. 
He  had  a  ''show"  in  London  and  was  supposed  to  have  done 
very  well  out  of  it  He  disappeared  for  a  little,  but  soon 
returne<l,  and  was  to  be  found  in  the  Cathedral  most  days  of 
the  week. 

At  tirst  ho  had  a  little  studio  at  the  top  of  Orange  Street. 
At  this  time  he  was  rather  popular  in  Polchester  society. 
Mrs.  Corabermere  took  him  up  and  found  him  audacious 
and  amusing.  His  French  name  gave  a  kind  of  piquancy 
to  his  audacity ;  he  was  unusual ;  he  was  striking.  It  was 
right  for  Polchester  to  have  an  artist  and  to  stick  him  up 
in  the  very  middle  of  the  town  as  an  emblem  of  taste  and 
culture.  Soon,  however,  he  began  to  decline.  It  was 
whispered  that  he  drank,  that  his  morals  were  '^only  what 
you'd  expect  of  an  artist,"  and  that  he  was  really  **too  queer 
about  the  Cathedral."  One  day  he  told  Miss  Dobell  that 
the  amount  that  she  knew  about  literature  would  go  inside 
a  very  small  pea,  and  he  was  certainly  "the  worse  for  liquor" 
at  one  of  Mrs.  Combermere's  tea-parties.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, give  them  time  to  drop  him;  he  dropped  himself,  gave 
up  his  Orange  Street  studio,  lived,  no  one  knew  where, 
neglected  his  appearance,  and  drank  quite  freely  whenever 
he  could  get  anything  to  drink.  He  now  cut  everybody, 
rather  than  allowed  himself  to  be  cut. 

He  was  in  the  Cathedral  as  often  as  ever,  and  Lawrence 
and  Cobbett,  the  Vergers,  longed  to  have  an  excuse  for  ex- 
pelling him,  but  he  always  behaved  himself  there  and  was  in 
nobody's  way.  He  was  finally  regarded  as  "quite  mad," 
and  was  seen  to  talk  aloud  to  himself  as  he  walked  about 
the  streets. 

"An  unhappy  example,"  Miss  Dobell  eaid,  "of  the  artiatio 
temperament,  that  wonderful  gift,  gone  wrong." 


oifB  PKELUDE  105 

Falk  had  seen  him  often  before  at  the  "Dog  and  Pilchard," 
and  had  wondered  at  first  whether  Annie  Hogg  was  the  at- 
traction. It  was  soon  clear,  however,  that  there  was  nothing 
in  that.  He  never  looked  at  the  girl  nor,  indeed,  at  any  one 
else  in  the  place.  He  simply  sat  there  moodily  staring  in 
front  of  him  and  drinking. 

To-day  it  was  clear  that  Falk  had  caught  his  attention. 
He  looked  across  the  room  at  him  with  a  queer  defiant  glance, 
something  like  Talk's  own.  Once  it  seemed  that  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  come  over  and  speak  to  him. 

He  half  rose  in  his  seat,  then  sank  back  again.  But  his 
eyes  came  round  again  and  again  to  the  corner  where  Palk 
was  sitting. 

The  Cathedral  chimes  had  whispered  twice  in  the  room 
before  Annie  returned. 

"What  is  it  you're  wanting?"  she  asked. 

"Come  outside  and  speak  to  me." 

"!N^o,  I  can't  do  that.     Father's  watching." 

"Well,  will  you  meet  me  one  evening  and  have  a  talk  ?" 

"What  about  ?" 

"Several  things." 

"It  isn't  right,  Mr.  Brandon.  What's  a  gentleman  like 
you  want  with  a  girl  like  me?" 

"I  only  want  us  to  get  away  a  little  from  all  this  noise 
and  filth." 

Suddenly  she  smiled. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do.  After  supper's  a  good  time. 
Father  goes  up  the  town  to  play  billiards.    After  eight." 

"When?" 

'What  about  to-morrow  evening?" 

"All  right.     Where?" 

"Up  to  the  Mill.     Five  minutes  up  from  here." 

"I'll  be  there,"  he  said. 

"Don't  let  father  catch  'ee — that's  all,"  she  smiled  down 
at  him.  "You'm  a  fule,  Mr.  Brandon,  to  bother  with  such 
as   I."      He   said   nothing   and   she   walked   away.      Very 


106  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

shortlj  after,  Davray  got  up  from  his  seat  and  came  over 
to  Falk's  comer.  It  was  obvious  that  he  had  been  drinking 
rather  heavily'.     He  was  a  little  unsteady  on  his  feet. 

"You're  young  Brandon,  aren't  you  ?"  he  asked. 

In  ordinary  times  Falk  would  have  told  him  to  go  to  the 
devil,  and  there  would  have  been  a  row,  but  to-day  he  was 
caught  away  so  absolutely  into  his  own  world  that  any  one 
could  speak  to  him,  any  one  laugh  at  him,  any  one  insult 
him,  and  ho  would  not  care.  He  had  been  meditating  for 
weeks  tlie  advance  that  he  had  just  taken;  always  when  one 
meditates  for  long  over  a  risk  it  swells  into  gigantic  propor- 
tions. So  this  had  been ;  that  simple  sentence  asking  her  to 
come  out  and  talk  to  him  had  seemed  an  impossible  challenge 
to  every  kind  of  fate,  and  now,  in  a  moment,  the  gulf  had 
been  jumped  ...  so  easy,  so  strangely  easy.  .  .  . 

From  a  great  distance  Davray's  words  came  to  him,  and 
in  the  dialogue  that  followed  he  spoke  like  a  somnambulist. 

**Yes,"  he  said,  "my  name's  Brandon." 

"I  knew,  of  course,"  said  Davray.  "I've  seen  you  about." 
He  spoke  with  great  swiftness,  the  words  tumbling  over  one 
another,  not  with  eagerness,  but  rather  with  a  kind  of 
supercilious  carelessness.  "Beastly  hole,  isn't  this  ?  Wonder 
why  one  comes  here.  Must  do  something  in  this  rotten 
town.  I've  drunk  enough  of  this  filthy  beer.  What  do  you 
say  to  moving  out?" 

Falk  looked  up  at  him. 

"What  do  you  say  ?"  he  asked. 

"Let's  move  out  of  this.  If  you're  walking  up  the  town 
I'll  go  with  you." 

Falk  was  not  conscious  of  the  man,  but  it  was  quite  true 
that  he  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  place  now  that  his  job 
in  it  was  done.  He  got  up  without  a  word  and  began  to 
push   through  the  room.      He  was  met   near  the  door  by 

"Goin',  Mr.  Brandon  ?  Like  to  settle  now  or  leave  it  to 
another  day  ?" 


ONE 


PKELUDE  107 


"What's  that?"  said  Falk,  stopping  as  though  some  one 
had  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  seemed  to  see  the 
large  smiling  man  suddenly  in  front  of  him  outlined  against 
a  shifting  wall  of  mist. 

"Payin'  now  or  leavin'  it?  Please  yourself,  Mr.  Bran- 
don." 

"Oh — paying!"  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  produced 
half-a-crown,  gave  it  to  Hogg  without  looking  at  him  and 
went  out.  Davray  followed,  slouching  through  the  room  and 
passage  with  the  conceited  over-careful  walk  of  a  man  a 
little  tipsy. 

Outside,  as  they  went  down  the  street  still  obscured  with 
the  wet  mist,  Davray  poured  out  a  flow  of  words  to  which 
he  seemed  to  want  no  answer. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  mind  my  speaking  to  you  like  that — 
a  bit  unceremonious.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth  I'm  lonely 
sometimes.  Also,  if  you  want  to  know  the  whole  truth  and 
nothing  'but  the  truth,  I'm  a  bit  tipsy  too.  Generally  am. 
This  air  makes  one  feel  queer  after  that  stinking  hole, 
doesn't  it?  if  you  can  call  this  air.  I've  seen  you  there  a 
lot  lately  and  often  thought  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you.  You're 
the  only  decent-looking  fellow  in  the  whole  of  this  town,  if 
you'll  forgive  my  saying  so.  Isn't  it  a  bloody  hole  ?  But  of 
course  you  think  so  too.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  I  suppose 
you  go  to  that  pub  after  that  girl.  I  saw  you  talking  to  her. 
Well,  each  man  to  his  t^ste.  I'd  never  interfere  with  any 
man's  pleasure.  I  loathe  women  myself,  always  have.  They 
never  appealed  to  me  a  little  bit.  In  Paris  the  men  used 
to  wonder  what  I  was  after.  I  was  after  Ambition  in  those 
days.  Funny  thing,  but  I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  a  great 
painter  once.  Queer  what  one  can  trick  oneself  into  be- 
lieving— so  I  might  have  been  if  I  hadn't  come  to  this  beastly 
town.     Hope  I'm  not  boring  you.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  as  though  he  had  suddenly  realised  that  his 
companion  had  not  said  a  word.  They  were  pushing  now 
up  the  hill  into  the  market-place  and  the  mist  was  now  so 


108  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

thick  that  they  could  scarcely  see  one  another's  face.  Falk 
was  thinking.  "To-morrow  evening.  .  .  .  What  do  I  want! 
What's  going  to  happen  ?     What  do  I  want  ?" 

The  silence  made  him  conscious  of  his  companion. 

"WTiat  do  you  say  ?"  he  asked. 

"Hope  I'm  not  boring  you." 

"No,  that's  all  right.     Where  are  we?" 

"Just  coming  into  the  market." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"If  I  talk  a  lot  it's  because  I  haven't  had  any  one  to  talk 
to  for  weeks.  Xot  that  I  want  to  talk  to  any  one.  I  deepise 
the  lot  of  them.  Conceited  set  of  ignorant  parrots.  .  .  . 
Whole  place  run  by  women  and  what  can  you  expect? 
You're  not  staying  here,  I  suppose.  I  heard  you'd  had 
enough  of  Oxford  and  I  don't  wonder.  No  place  for  a  man, 
beautiful  enough  but  spoilt  by  the  peopla  Damn  people — 
always  coming  along  and  spoiling  places.  Now  there's  the 
Cathedral,  most  wonderful  thing  in  England,  but  does  any 
one  know  it?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You'd  think  they  fancied 
that  the  Cathedral  owes  them  something — about  as  much 
sense  of  beauty  as  a  cockroach." 

They  were  pressing  up  the  High  Street  now.  There  was 
no  one  about.  It  was  a  town  of  ghosts.  By  the  Arden  Gate 
Falk  realised  where  he  was  and  halted. 

"Hullo!  we're  nearly  home.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  good  after- 
noon, Mr.  Davray." 

"Come  into  the  Cathedral  for  a  moment,"  Davray  seemed 
to  be  urgent  about  this.  "Have  you  ever  been  up  into  the 
King  Harry  Tower?     I  bet  you  haven't." 

"King  Harry  Tower?  .  .  ."  Falk  stared  at  the  man. 
What  did  the  fellow  want  him  to  do?  Go  into  the  Cathe- 
dral ?  Well,  why  not  ?  Stupid  to  go  home  just  now — nothing 
to  do  there  but  think,  and  people  would  interrupt  .  .  . 
Think  better  out  of  doors.  But  what  was  there  to  think 
about?  He  was  not  thinking,  simply  going  round  and 
round.  .  .  .  Wlio  was  this  fellow  anyway  ? 


ONE  PKELUDE  109 

"As  you  like,"  he  said. 

They  crossed  the  Precincts  and  went  through  the  West 
door  into  the  Cathedral.  The  nave  was  full  of  dusky  light 
and  very  still.  Candles  glimmered  behind  the  great  choir- 
screen  and  there  were  lamps  by  the  West  door.  Seen  thus, 
in  its  half-dark,  the  nave  bore  full  witness  to  the  fact  that 
Polchester  has  the  largest  Cathedral  in  Northern  Europe.  It 
is  certainly  true  that  no  other  building  in  England  gives  the 
same  overwhelming  sense  of  length. 

In  full  daylight  the  nave  perhaps,  as  is  the  case  with  all 
English  Cathedrals,  lacks  colour  and  seems  cold  and  deserted. 
In  the  dark  of  this  spring  evening  it  was  full  of  mystery, 
and  the  great  columns  of  the  nave's  ten  bays,  rising  un- 
broken to  the  roof  groining,  sprang,  it  seemed,  out  of  air, 
superbly,  intolerably  inhuman. 

The  colours  from  the  tombs  and  the  brasses  glimmered 
against  the  grey,  and  the  great  rose-coloured  circle  of  the 
West  window  flung  pale  lights  across  the  cold  dark  of  the 
flags  and  pillars. 

The  two  men  were  held  by  the  mysterious  majesty  of  the 
place.  Falk  was  lifted  right  out  of  his  own  preoccupied 
thoughts. 

He  had  never  considered  the  Cathedral  except  as  a  place 
to  which  he  was  dragged  for  services  against  his  will,  but  to- 
night, perhaps  because  of  his  own  crisis,  he  seemed  to  see  it 
all  for  the  first  time.  He  was  conscious  now  of  Davray  and 
was  aware  that  be  d'd  not  like  him  and  wished  to  be  rid  of 
him — "an  awful-looking  tout"  he  thought  him,  "with  his 
greasy  long  hair  and  his  white  long  face  and  his  spindle 
legs." 

"N^ow  we'll  go  up  into  King  Harry,"  Davray  said.  But 
at  that  moment  old  Lawrence  came  bustling  along.  Law- 
rence, over  seventy  years  of  age,  had  grown  stout  and  white- 
haired  in  the  Cathedral's  service.  He  was  a  fine  figure  in 
his  purple  gown,  broad-shouldered,  his  chest  and  stomach  of 
a  grand  protuberance,  his  broad  white  flowing  beard  a  true 


110  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

emblem  of  his  ancient  dignity.  He  was  the  most  autocratic 
of  Vergers  and  had  been  allowed  now  for  many  years  to  do 
as  he  pleased.  The  only  thorn  in  his  fleeh  was  Cobbett, 
tlie  junior  Verger,  who,  as  he  very  well  realised,  was  long- 
ing for  him  to  die,  that  he  might  step  into  hb  shoes.  "I 
do  believe,"  he  was  accustomed  to  say  to  Mrs.  Lawrence,  a 
little  be-bullicd  woman,  "that  that  man  will  poison  me  one 
of  these  fine  days." 

His  autocracy  had  grown  on  him  with  the  size  and  the 
whiteness  of  his  beard,  and  there  were  many  complaints — 
rude  to  strangers,  sycophantic  to  the  aristocracy,  greedy  of 
tips,  insolent  and  conceited,  he  was  an  excellent  example  of 
the  proper  spirit  of  the  Church  Militant.  He  had,  however, 
his  merits.  He  loved  small  children  and  would  have  al- 
lowed them  to  run  riot  on  the  Cathedral  greens  had  he  not 
been  checked,  and  he  had  a  pride  in  the  Cathedral  that 
would  drive  him  to  any  sacrifice  in  his  defence  of  it. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  he  should  hate  the  very  sight 
of  Davray,  and  when  that  gentleman  appeared  he  hung  about 
in  the  background  hoping  that  he  might  catch  him  in  some 
crime.    At  first  he  thought  him  alone. 

"Oh,  Verger,"  Da\Tay  said,  as  though  he  were  speaking 
to  a  b^gar  who  had  asked  of  him  alms.  "I  want  to  go  up 
into  King  Harry.     You  have  the  key,  I  think." 

'Well,  you  can't,  sir,"  said  Lawrence,  witli  considerable 
satisfaction.     "  'Tis  after  hours."     Then  he  saw  Falk. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Brandon,  sir.  I  didn't 
realise.     Do  you  want  to  go  up  the  Tower,  sir?" 

"We  may  as  well,"  said  Falk. 

"Of  course  for  you,  sir,  it's  different  Strangers  have  to 
keep  certain  hours.     This  way,  sir." 

They  followed  the  pompous  old  man  across  the  nave,  up  the 
side  aisle,  past  "tombs  and  monuments  and  gilded  knights," 
until  they  came  to  the  King  Harry  Chapel.  This  was  to  the 
right  of  the  choir,  and  before  the  screen  that  railed  it  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  church  there  was  a  notice  saying  that  this 


ONE  PRELUDE  111 

Chapel  had  been  put  aside  for  private  prayer  and  it  was 
hoped  that  no  one  would  talk  or  make  any  noise,  were  some 
one  meditating  or  praying  there.  The  little  place  was  in- 
finitely quiet,  with  a  special  air  of  peace  and  beauty  as  though 
all  the  prayers  and  meditations  that  had  been  offered  there 
had  deeply  sanctified  it;  Lawrence  pushed  open  the  door  of 
the  screen  and  they  crossed  the  flagged  floor.  Suddenly  into 
the  heart  of  the  hush  there  broke  the  Cathedral  chimes,  al- 
most, as  it  seemed,  directly  above  their  heads,  booming, 
echoing,  dying  with  lingering  music  back  into  the  silence. 
At  the  corner  of  the  Chapel  there  was  a  little  wooden  door; 
Lawrence  unlocked  it  and  pushed  it  open.  "Mind  how  you 
go,  sir,"  he  said,  speaking  to  Ealk  as  though  Davray  did 
not  exist.     "  'Tis  a  bit  difficult  with  the  winding  stair." 

The  two  men  went  forward  into  the  black  darkness,  leav- 
ing the  dusky  light  behind  them.  Davray  led  the  way 
and  Falk  followed,  feeling  with  his  arms  the  black  walls 
on  either  side  of  him,  knocking  with  his  legs  against  the 
steps  above  him.  Here  there  was  utter  darkness  and  no 
sound.  He  had  suddenly  a  half-alarmed,  half-humorous  sus- 
picion that  Davray  was  suddenly  going  to  turn  round  upon 
him  and  push  him  down  the  stair  or  stick  a  knife  into  him — 
the  fear  of  the  dark.  "After  all,  what  am  I  doing  with  this 
fellow  ?"  he  thought.  "I  don't  know  him.  I  don't  like  him. 
I  don't  want  to  be  with  him." 

"That's  better,"  he  heard  Davray  say.  There  was  a  glim- 
mer, then  a  shadow  of  grey  light,  finally  they  had  stepped 
out  into  what  was  known  as  the  Whispering  Gallery,  a  nar- 
row railed  platform  that  ran  the  length  of  the  Chapel  and 
beyond  to  the  opposite  Tower.  They  did  not  stop  there. 
They  pushed  up  again  by  more  winding  stairs,  black  for  a 
space,  then  lit  by  a  window,  then  black  again.  At  last,  after 
what  had  seemed  a  long  journey,  they  were  in  a  little,  spare, 
empty  room  with  a  wooden  floor.  One  side  of  this  little 
room  was  open  and  railed  in.  Looking  down,  the  floor  of 
the  nave  seemed  a  vast  distance  below.     You  seemed  here 


112  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

to  be  flying  in  glory.  The  dim  haze  of  the  candles  just 
touched  the  misty  depth  with  golden  colour.  Above  them 
the  great  roof  seemed  close  and  menacing.  Everywhere  pil- 
lars and  buttresses  rose  out  of  space.  The  great  architect 
of  the  building  seemed  here  to  have  his  true  kingdom,  so 
vast  was  the  depth  and  the  height  and  the  grandeur.  The 
walls  and  the  roof  and  the  pillars  that  supported  it  were 
alive  with  their  o\\'n  greatness,  scornful  of  little  men  and 
their  little  loves.  The  hush  was  filled  with  movement  and 
stir  and  a  vast  business.  .  .  . 

The  two  men  leaned  on  the  rails  and  looked  down.  Far 
below,  the  white  figured  altar,  the  brass  of  the  Black  Bish- 
op's tomb,  the  glitter  of  Saint  Margaret's  screen  struck  in 
little  points  of  dull  gold  like  stars  upon  a  grey  inverted  sky 

Davray  turned  suddenly  upon  his  companion.  "And  it's 
men  like  your  father,"  he  said,  "who  think  that  this  place 
is  theirs.  .  .  .  Theirs!  Presumption!  But  they'll  get  it 
in  the  neck  for  that.  This  place  can  bide  its  time.  Just 
when  you  think  you're  its  master  it  turns  and  stamps  you 
out." 

Falk  said  nothing.  Davray  seemed  irritated  by  his  silence. 
"You  wait  and  see,"  he  said.  "It  amuses  me  to  see  your 
governor  walking  up  the  choir  on  Sundays  as  though  he 
owned  the  place.  Owned  it!  Why,  he  doesn't  realise  a 
stone  of  it !  Well,  he'll  get  it.  They  all  have  who've  tried 
his  game.     Owned  it !" 

"I^ook  here,"  said  Falk,  "don't  you  say  anything  about 
my  father — that's  none  of  your  business.  He's  all  right.  I 
don't  know  what  the  devil  I  came  up  here  for — thinking  of 
other  things." 

Davray  too  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

"You  wonderful  place!"  he  whispered.  "You  beautiful 
place!  You've  ruined  me,  but  I  don't  care.  You  can  do 
what  you  like  with  me.     You  wonder!    You  wonder!" 

Falk  lookcfl  nt  him.  The  man  was  mad.  He  was  holding 
on  to  the  milMicr,  lonn'nc:  forward,  staring.  .  .  . 


ONE 


PRELUDE  113 


"Look  here,  it  isn't  safe  to  lean  like  that.  You'll  be 
tumbling  over  and  breaking  your  neck  if  you're  not  careful.'' 

But  Davray  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  lost  in  his  own 
dreams.  Falk  despised  dreams  although  just  now  he  was 
himself  in  the  grip  of  one.     Besides  the  fellow  was  drunk. 

A  sudden  disgust  of  his  companion  overtook  him. 

"Well,  so  long,"  he  said.     "I  must  be  getting  home!" 

He  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  it  were  safe  to  leave 
the  fellow  there.  "It's  his  own  look-out,"  he  thought,  and  as 
Davray  said  no  more  he  left  him. 

Back  once  more  in  the  King  Harry  Chapel,  he  looked 
up.    But  he  could  see  no  one  and  could  hear  no  sound. 


CHAPTER  VII 


BONDER  8  DAY 


ROUNDER  had  now  spent  several  months  in  Polchester 
and  was  able  to  come  to  an  opinion  about  it,  and  the 
opinion  that  he  had  come  to  was  that  he  could  be  very  com- 
fortable there.  His  aunt,  who,  in  spite  of  her  sharpness, 
never  was  sure  how  he  would  take  an\'thing,  was  a  little  sur- 
prised when  he  told  her  this.  But  then  she  was  never  cer- 
tain what  were  the  secret  springs  from  which  he  derived 
that  sense  of  comfort  that  was  the  centre  of  his  life.  She 
should  have  known  by  now  that  he  derived  it  from  two 
things — luxury  and  the  possibility  of  intrigue. 

Polcliester  could  not  have  appeared  to  any  casual  observer 
a  luxurious  town,  but  it  had  for  Render  exactly  that  com- 
bination of  beauty  and  mystery  that  obtained  for  him  his 
sensation. 

Ho  did  not  analyse  it  as  yet  further  than  that — he  knew 
that  those  two  things  were  there;  he  might  investigate  them 
at  his  leisure. 

In  that  easy,  smiling  fashion  that  he  had  developed  from 
his  earliest  days  as  the  surest  protection  for  his  own  se- 
curity and  ease,  he  arranged  everything  around  him  to  as- 
sure his  tranquillity.  Ever^-thing  was  not  as  yet  arranged; 
it  might  take  him  six  months,  a  year,  two  years  for  that  ar- 
rangement .  .  .  but  he  knew  now  that  it  would  be  done. 

The  second  element  in  his  comfort,  his  love  of  intrigue, 
would  be  satisfied  here  simply  because  everything  was  not, 
as  yet,  as  he  would  have  it  He  would  have  hated  to  have 
tumbled  into  the  place  and  found  it  just  as  he  required  it. 

lit 


PEELUDE  115 

He  liked  to  have  things  to  move,  to  adjust,  to  arrange,  just 
as  when  he  entered  a  room  he  always,  if  he  had  the  power, 
at  once  altered  the  chairs,  the  cushions.  It  was  towards 
this  final  adjustment  that  his  power  of  intrigue  always 
worked.  Once  everything  was  adjusted  he  sank  back  luxuri- 
ously and  surveyed  it — and  then,  in  all  probability,  was 
quickly  tired  of  it  and  looked  for  new  fields  to  conquer. 

He  could  not  remember  a  time  when  he  had  not  been  im- 
pelled to  alter  things  for  his  comfort.  He  did  not  wish  to 
be  selfish  about  this,  he  was  quite  willing  for  every  one 
else  to  do  the  same — indeed,  he  watched  them  with  genial- 
ity and  wondered  why  on  earth  they  didn't.  As  a  small  boy 
at  Harrow  he  had,  with  an  imperturbable  smile  and  a  sense 
of  humour  that,  in  spite  of  his  rotund  youth  and  a  general 
sense  amongst  his  elders  that  he  was  "cheeky,"  won  him 
popularity,  worked  always  for  his  own  comfort. 

He  secured  it  and,  first  as  fag  and  afterwards  as  House- 
prefect,  finally  as  School-prefect,  did  exactly  what  he  wanted 
with  everybody. 

He  did  it  by  being,  quite  frankly,  all  things  to  all  men, 
although  never  with  sycophancy  nor  apparent  falseness.  He 
amused  the  bored,  was  confidential  with  the  wicked,  upright 
with  the  upright,  and  sympathetic  with  the  unfortunate. 

He  was  quite  genuine  in  all  these  things.  He  was  deeply 
interested  in  humanity,  not  for  humanity's  sake  but  his  own. 
He  bore  no  man  any  grudge,  but  if  any  one  was  in  his  way 
he  worked  hard  until  they  were  elsewhere.  That  removal  at- 
tained, he  wished  them  all  the  luck  in  the  world. 

He  was  ordained  because  he  thought  he  could  deal  more 
easily  with  men  as  a  parson.  "Men  always  take  clergymen 
for  fools,"  he  told  his  aunt,  "and  so  they  sometimes  are  .  .  . 
but  not  always."  He  knew  he  was  not  a  fool,  but  he  was 
not  conceited.  He  simply  thought  that  he  had  hit  upon  the 
one  secret  of  life  and  could  not  understand  why  others  had 
not  done  the  same.  Why  do  people  worry  so  ?  was  the  amused 
speculation.     "Deep  emotions  are  simply  not  worth  while," 


116  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

he  decided  on  his  coming  of  age.  He  liked  women  but  his 
sense  of  humour  prevented  him  from  falling  in  love.  He 
really  did  understand  the  sensual  habits  and  desires  of  men 
and  women  but  watched  them  from  a  distance  through  books 
and  pictures  and  other  men's  stories.  He  was  shocked  by 
nothing — nor  did  he  despise  mankind.  He  thought  that 
mankind  did  on  the  whole  very  well  considering  its  difficul- 
ties. He  was  kind  and  often  generous ;  he  bore  no  man  alive 
or  dead  any  gnidge.  He  refused  absolutely  to  quarrel — 
"waste  of  time  and  temper." 

His  one  danger  was  lest  that  passion  for  intrigue  should 
go  deeper  than  he  allowed  anything  to  go.  Playing  chess 
with  mankind  was  to  him,  he  declared,  simply  a  means  to 
an  end.  Perhaps  once  it  had  been  so.  But,  as  he  grew 
older,  there  was  a  danger  that  the  end  should  be  swallowed 
by  the  means. 

This  danger  he  did  not  perceive;  it  was  his  one  blindness. 
Finally  he  believed  with  La  Rochefoucauld  that  "Pity  is  a 
passion  which  is  wholly  useless  to  a  well-constituted  mind." 

At  any  rate  he  discovered  that  there  was  in  Polchester 
a  situation  exactly  suited  to  his  powers.  The  town,  or  the 
Cathedral  part  of  it,  was  dominated  by  one  man,  and  that 
man  a  stupid,  autocratic,  retrogressive,  good-natured  child. 
He  bore  that  child  not  the  slightest  ill-will,  but  it  must  go  or, 
at  any  rate,  its  authority  must  be  removed.  He  did,  indeed, 
like  Brandon,  and  through  most  of  this  aflFair  he  did  not 
cease  to  like  him,  but  he,  Render,  would  never  be  comfort- 
able so  long  as  Brandon  was  there,  he  would  never  be  free 
to  take  the  steps  that  seemed  to  him  good,  he  would  be  in- 
terfered with  and  patronised.  He  was  greatly  amused  by 
Brandon's  patronage,  but  it  really  was  not  a  thing  that  could 
be  allowed  to  remain. 

If  he  saw,  as  he  made  his  plans,  that  the  man's  heart  and 
soul,  his  life,  physical  and  spiritual,  were  involved — well  he. 
was  sorry.  It  simply  proved  how  foolish  it  was  to  allow 
your  heart  and  soul  to  be  concerned  in  anything. 


ONE  PKELUDE  117 

He  very  quickly  perceived  that  the  first  thing  to  be  done 
was  to  establish  relations  with  the  men  who  composed  the 
Chapter.  He  watched,  he  listened,  he  observed,  then,  at  the 
end  of  some  months,  he  began  to  move. 

Many  men  would  have  considered  him  lazy.  He  never 
took  exercise  if  he  could  avoid  it,  and  it  was  Polchester's 
only  fault  that  it  had  so  many  hills.  He  always  had  break- 
fast in  bed,  read  the  papers  there  and  smoked  a  cigarette. 
Every  morning  he  had  a  bath  as  hot  as  he  could  bear  it — • 
and  he  could  bear  it  very  hot  indeed.  Much  of  his  best 
thinking  was  done  there. 

When  he  came  downstairs  he  reserved  the  first  hour  for 
his  own  reading,  reading,  that  is,  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  any  kind  of  work,  that  was  purely  for  his  own  pleasure. 
He  allowed  nothing  whatever  to  interfere  with  this — Gautier 
and  Flaubert,  La  Bruyere  and  Montaigne  were  his  favour- 
ite authors,  but  he  read  a  great  deal  of  English,  Italian,  and 
Spanish,  and  had  a  marvelous  memory.  He  enjoyed,  too, 
erotic  literature  and  had  a  fine  collection  of  erotic  books 
and  prints  shut  away  in  a  cabinet  in  his  study.  He  found 
great  fascination  in  theological  books:  he  laughed  at  many 
of  them,  but  kept  an  open  mind — atheistic  and  materialistic 
dogmas  seemed  to  him  as  absurd  as  orthodox  ones.  He  read 
too  a  gTeat  deal  of  philosophy  but,  on  the  whole,  he  despised 
men  who  gave  themselves  up  to  philosophy  more  than  any 
other  human  beings.  He  felt  that  they  lost  their  sense  of 
hiimour  so  quickly,  and  made  life  unpleasant  for  themselves. 

After  his  hour  of  reading  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  work 
of  the  day.  He  was  the  most  methodical  of  men :  the  desk  in 
his  study  was  full  of  little  drawers  and  contrivances  for  keep- 
ing things  in  order.  He  had  a  thin  vase  of  blue  glass  filled 
with  flowers,  a  small  Chinese  image  of  green  jade,  a  photo- 
graph of  the  Blind  Homer  from  the  Naples  Museuta  in  a 
silver  frame,  and  a  little  gold  clock ;  all  these  things  had  to 
be  in  their  exactly  correct  positions.  Nothing  worried  him 
so  much  as  dust  or  any  kind  of  disorder.     He  would  some- 


118  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

times  stop  in  the  middle  of  his  work  and  cross  the  room  in  the 
soft  slippers  of  brown  kid  that  he  always  wore  in  his  study, 
and  put  some  picture  straight  or  move  some  ornament  from 
one  position  to  another.  The  books  that  stretched  along  one 
wall  from  floor  to  ceiling  were  arranged  most  carefully  ac- 
cording to  their  subjects.  He  disliked  to  see  some  books 
projecting  further  from  the  shelf  than  others,  and,  with  a  lit- 
tle smile  of  protest,  as  though  he  were  giving  them  a  kindly 
scolding,  he  would  push  them  into  their  right  places. 

Let  is  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  he  was  idle  during 
these  hours.  He  could  accomplish  an  astonishing  amount 
of  work  in  a  short  time,  and  he  was  never  idle  except  by 
deliberate  intention. 

When  luncheon  time  arrived  he  was  ready  to  be  charming 
to  his  aunt,  and  charming  to  her  he  was.  Their  relations 
were  excellent.  She  understood  him  so  well  that  she  left 
his  schemes  alone.  If  she  did  not  entirely  approve  of  him — 
and  she  entirely  approved  of  nobody — she  loved  him  for  his 
good  company,  his  humour,  and  his  common-sense.  She  liked 
it  too  that  he  did  not  mind  when  she  chose  to  allow  her  irony 
to  play  upon  him.    He  cared  nothing  for  any  irony. 

At  luncheon  they  felt  a  very  agreeable  intimacy.  There 
was  no  need  for  explanations;  half  allusions  were  enough. 
They  could  enjoy  their  joke  without  emphasising  it  and 
sometimes  even  without  expressing  it.  Miss  lionder  knew 
that  her  nephew  liked  to  hear  all  the  gossip.  He  collected  it, 
tied  it  into  little  packets,  and  put  them  away  in  the  little 
mechanical  contrivances  with  which  his  mind  was  filled.  She 
told  him  first  what  she  heard,  then  her  authorities,  finally 
her  owni  opinions.     He  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  meal. 

He  had,  by  now,  very  tlioroughly  mastered  the  Cathedral 
finances.  They  were  not  complicated  and  were  in  good  or- 
der, because  Hart-Smith  had  been  a  man  of  an  orderly  mind. 
Ilonder  very  quickly  discovered  that  Brandon  had  had  his 
fingers  considerably  in  the  old  pie,  "And  now  there'll  be 
a  new  pie,"  he  said  to  himself,  "baked  by  me."  .  .  .  He 


ONE  PRELUDE  119 

traced  a  number  of  stupid  and  conservative  decisions  to 
Brandon's  agency.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  many  things 
needed  a  new  urgency  and  activity. 

People  had  had  to  fight  desperately  for  money  when  they 
should  have  been  given  it  at  once;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
Cathedral  had  been  well  looked  after — it  was  rather  depend- 
ent bodies  like  the  School,  the  Almshouses,  and  various  liv- 
ings in  the  Chapter  grant  that  had  suffered. 

Anything  that  could  possibly  be  considered  a  novelty  had 
been  fought  and  generally  defeated.  "There  will  be  a  lot  of 
novelties  before  I've  finished  with  them,"  Ponder  said  to 
himself. 

He  started  his  investigations  by  paying  calls  on  Bentinck- 
Major  and  Canon  Foster.  Bentinck-Major  lived  at  the  top 
of  Orange  Street,  in  a  fine  house  with  a  garden,  and  Foster 
lived  in  one  of  four  tumble-down  buildings  behind  the  Ca- 
thedral, known  from  time  immemorial  as  Canon's  Yard. 

The  afternoon  of  his  visit  was  about  three  days  after  a 
dinner-party  at  the  Castle.  He  had  seen  and  heard  enough 
at  that  dinner  to  amuse  him  for  many  a  day ;  he  considered 
it  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  entertaining  dinners  at  which 
he  had  ever  been  present.  It  had  been  here  that  he  had  heard 
for  the  first  time  of  the  Pybus  St.  Anthony  living.  Brandon 
had  been  present,  and  he  observed  Brandon's  nervousness, 
and  gathered  enough  to  realise  that  this  would  be  a  matter 
of  considerable  seriousness.  He  was  to  know  a  great  deal 
more  about  it  before  the  afternoon  was  over. 

As  he  walked  through  the  town  on  the  way  to  Orange 
Street  he  came  upon  Ryle,  the  Precentor.  Ryle  looked  the 
typical  clergyman,  tall  but  not  too  tall,  here  a  smile  and  there 
a  smile,  with  his  soft  black  hat,  his  trousers  too  baggy  at  the 
knees,  his  boots  and  his  gold  watch-chain  both  too  large. 

He  cared,  with  serious  devotion,  for  the  Cathedral  music 
and  sang  the  services  beautifully,  but  he  would  have  been 
able  to  give  more  time  to  his  work  were  he  not  so  continu- 
ously worrying  as  to  whether  people  were  vexed  with  him  or 


120  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

no.  His  idea  of  Paradise  was  a  place  where  he  could  chant 
eternal  services  and  where  everybody  liked  him.  He  was  a 
good  man,  but  weak,  and  therefore  driven  again  and  again 
into  insincerity.  It  was  as  though  there  was  for  ever  in 
front  of  him  the  consciousness  of  some  secret  in  his  past  life 
that  must  on  no  account  be  discovered;  but,  poor  man,  he 
had  no  secret  at  all. 

**Well,  Precentor,  and  how  are  you  ?"  said  Render,  beam- 
ing at  him  over  his  spectacles. 

Ryle  started.  Render  had  come  behind  him.  He  liked 
the  look  of  Render.  He  always  preferred  fat  men  to  thin; 
they  were  much  less  malicious,  he  thought. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Canon  Render — very  well,  thank  you. 
I  didn't  see  you.  Quite  spring  weather.  Are  you  going 
my  way?" 

"I'm  off  to  see  Bentinck-Major." 

"Oh,  yes,  Bentinck-Major.  .  .  ." 

Ryle's  first  thought  was — "Now  is  Bentinck-Major  likely 
to  have  anything  to  say  against  me  this  afternoon  ?" 

"I'm  going  up  Orange  Street  too.  It's  the  High  School 
Governors'  meeting,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course." 

The  two  men  started  up  the  hill  together.  Bonder  sur- 
veyed the  scene  around  him  with  pleasure.  Orange  Street 
always  satisfied  his  aesthetic  sense.  It  was  the  street  of  the 
doctors,  the  solicitors,  the  dentists,  the  bankers,  and  the 
wealthier  old  maids  of  Polchester.  The  grey  stone  was  of  a 
charming  age,  the  houses  with  their  bow-windows,  their  pil- 
lared porches,  their  deep-set  doors,  their  gleaming  old-fash- 
ioned knockers,  spoke  eloquently  of  the  day  when  the  great 
Jane's  Elizabeths  and  D'Arcys,  Mrs.  Morrises  and  Misses 
Bates  found  the  world  in  a  tea-<'up,  when  passions  were  solved 
by  matrimony  and  ambitions  by  the  possession  of  a  carriage 
and  a  fine  ^air  of  bays.  But  more  than  this  was  the  way 
that  the  gardens  and  lawns  and  orchards  ran  unchecked  in 
and  out,  up  and  do^vn,  here  breaking  into  the  street,  there 


ONE  PKELUDE  121 

crowding  a  churcli  witli  apple-trees,  seeming  to  speak,  at 
every  step,  of  leisure  and  sunny  days  and  lives  free  of  care. 

Ronder  had  never  seen  anything  so  pretty;  something 
seemed  to  tell  him  that  he  would  never  see  anything  so 
pretty  again. 

Ryle  was  not  a  good  conversationalist,  because  he  had 
always  before  him  the  fear  that  some  one  might  twist  what 
he  said  into  something  really  unpleasant,  but,  indeed,  he 
found  Ronder  so  agreeable  that,  as  he  told  Mrs.  Ryle  when 
he  got  home,  he  "never  noticed  the  hill  at  all." 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  impertinent,"  said  Ronder, 
"but  I  must  tell  you  how  charmed  I  was  with  the  way  that 
you  sang  the  service  on  Sunday.  You  must  have  been  com- 
plimented often  enough  before,  but  a  stranger  always  has 
the  right,  I  think,  to  say  something.  I'm  a  little  critical, 
too,  of  that  kind  of  thing,  although,  of  course,  an  amateur 
.  .  .  but — well,  it  was  delig:htful." 

Ryle  flushed  with  pleasure  to  the  very  tips  of  his  over- 
large  ears. 

"Oh,  really.  Canon.  .  .  .  But  indeed  I  hardly  know  what 
to  say.  You're  too  good.  I  do  my  poor  best,  but  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  there  is  danger  of  one's  becoming  stale. 
I've  been  here  a  great  many  years  now  and  I  think  some 
one  fresh  .  .  ." 

"Well,  often,"  said  Ronder,  "that  is  a  danger.  I  know 
several  cases  where  a  change  would  be  all  for  the  better,  but 
in  your  case  there  wasn't  a  trace  of  staleness.  I  do  hope  you 
won't  think  me  presumptuous  in  saying  this.  I  couldn't 
help  myself.  I  must  congratulate  you,  too,  on  the  choir. 
How  do  you  find  Brockett  as  an  organist  ?" 

"E"ot  quite  all  one  would  wish,"  said  Ryle  eagerly — and 
then,  as  though  he  remembered  that  some  one  might  repeat 
this  to  Brockett,  he  added  hurriedly,  "'Not  that  he  doesn't 
do  his  best.  He's  an  excellent  fellow.  Every  one  has  their 
faults.    It's  only  that  he's  a  little  too  fond  of  adventures  on 


122  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

his  own  account,  likes  to  add  things  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  ...  a  little  fantastic  sometimes." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Ronder  gravely.  "That's  rather  what 
I'd  thought  myself.  I  noticed  it  once  or  twice  last  Sunday. 
But  that's  a  fault  on  the  right  side.  The  boys  behave  ad- 
mirably.    I  never  saw  better  behaviour." 

Ryle  was  now  in  his  element.  He  let  himself  go,  explain- 
ing this,  defending  that,  apologising  for  one  thing,  hoping 
for  another.  Before  he  knew  where  he  was  he  found  him- 
self at  the  turning  above  the  monument  that  led  to  the 
High  School. 

"Here  we  part,"  he  said. 

"Why,  so  we  do,"  cried  Ronder. 

"I  do  hope,"  said  Ryle  nervously,  "that  you'll  come  and 
see  us  soon.     Mrs.  Ryle  will  be  delighted.  .  .  ." 

"\Vhy,  of  course  I  will,"  said  Ronder.  "Any  day  you 
like.  Good-bye.  Good-bye,"  and  he  went  to  Bentinck-Ma- 
jor's. 

One  look  at  Bentinck-Major's  garden  told  a  great  deal  about 
Bentinck-Major.  The  flower-beds,  the  trim  over-green  lawn, 
the  neat  paths,  the  trees  in  their  fitting  places,  all  spoke 
not  only  of  a  belief  in  material  things  but  a  desire  also  to 
demonstrate  that  one  so  believed.  .  .  . 

One  expected  indeed  to  see  the  Bentinck-Major  arms  over 
the  front-door.     They  were  there  in  spirit  if  not  in  fact. 

"Is  the  Canon  in?"  Ronder  asked  of  a  small  and  gaping 
page-boy. 

He  was  in,  it  appeared.  Would  he  see  Canon  Ronder? 
The  page-boy  disappeared  and  Ronder  was  able  to  observe 
three  family-trees  framed  in  oak,  a  large  china  bowl  with 
visiting-cards,  and  a  huge  round-faced  clock  that,  even  as 
he  waited  there,  pompously  annoimced  that  half-hour.  Pres- 
ently the  Canon,  like  a  shining  Ganymede,  came  flying  into 
the  hall. 

"My  dear  Ronder !    But  this  is  delightful.    A  little  early 


ONE  PKELUDE  123 

for  tea,  perhaps.  Indeed,  mj  wife  is,  for  the  moment,  out. 
What  do  you  say  to  the  library  ?" 

Render  had  nothing  to  say  against  the  library,  and  into 
it  they  went.  A  fine  room  with  books  in  leather  bindings, 
high  windows,  an  oil  painting  of  the  Canon  as  a  smart 
young  curate,  a  magnificent  writing-table.  The  Spectator  and 
The  Church  Times  near  the  fireplace,  and  two  deep  leather 
arm-chairs.    Into  these  last  two  the  clergymen  sank. 

Bentinck-Major  put  his  fingers  together,  crossed  his  ad- 
mirable legs,  and  looked  interrogatively  at  his  visitor. 

"I'm  lucky  to  catch  you  at  home,"  said  Render.  "This 
isn't  quite  the  time  to  call,  I'm  afraid.  But  the  fact  is  that 
I  want  some  advice." 

"Quite  so,"  said  his  host. 

"I'm  not  a  very  modest  man,"  said  Render,  laughing.  "In 
fact,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  believe  very  much  in  mod- 
esty. But  there  are  times  when  it's  just  as  well  to  admit 
one's  incompetence.    This  is  one  of  them ^" 

"Why,  really.  Canon,"  said  Bentinck-Major,  wishing  to 
give  the  poor  man  encouragement. 

"No,  but  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  don't  consider  myself 
a  stupid  man,  but  when  one  comes  fresh  into  a  place  like 
this  there  are  many  things  that  one  cant  know,  and  that  one 
must  learn  from  some  one  wiser  than  oneself  if  one's  to  do 
any  good." 

"Oh,  really,  Canon,"  Bentinck-Major  repeated.  "If  there's 
anything  I  can  do " 

"There  is.  It  isn't  so  much  about  the  actual  details  of 
the  work  that  I  want  your  advice.  Hart-Smith  has  left 
things  in  excellent  condition,  and  I  only  hope  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  keep  everything  as  straight  as  he  has  done.  What 
I  really  want  from  you  is  some  sort  of  bird's-eye  view  as  to 
the  whole  situation.  The  Chapter,  for  instance.  Of  course, 
I've  been  here  for  some  months  now  and  have  a  little  idea 
as  to  the  people  in  the  place,  but  you've  been  here  so  long 
that  there  are  many  things  that  you  can  tell  me." 


124  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

''Now,  for  instance,"  said  Bentinck-Major,  looking  very 
wise  and  serious.     ''What  kind  of  things?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  toll  me  any  secrets,"  said  TJonder. 
**!  only  want  your  opinion,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  as  to  how 
things  stand — what  really  wants  doing,  who,  beside  your- 
self, are  the  leading  men  here  and  in  what  directions  they 
work.     I  needn't  say  that  this  conversation  is  confidential." 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course." 

"Now,  I  don't  know  if  I'm  wrong,  but  it  seems  from 
what  I've  seen  during  the  short  time  that  I've  been  here 
that  the  general  point  of  view  is  inclined  to  be  a  little  too 
locaL  I  believe  you  rather  feel  that  yourself,  although  I 
may  be  prejudiced,  coming  straight  as  I  have  from  Lon- 
don." 

"It's  odd  that  you  should  mention  that,  Canon,"  said 
Bentinck-Major.  "You've  put  your  finger  on  the  weak  spot 
at  once.  You're  only  saying  what  I've  been  crying  aloud  for 
the  last  ever  so  many  years.  A  voice  in  the  wilderness  I've 
been,  I'm  afraid — a  voice  in  the  wilderness,  although  per- 
haps I  have  managed  to  do  a  little  something.  But  there's 
no  doubt  that  the  men  here,  excellent  though  they  are,  are 
a  little  provincial.  What  else  can  you  expect  ?  They've  been 
here  for  years.  They  have  not  had,  most  of  them,  the  ad- 
Tantage  of  mingling  with  the  great  world.  That  I  should 
have  had  a  little  more  of  that  opportunity  than  my  fellows 
here  is  nothing  to  my  credit,  but  it  does,  beyond  question, 
give  one  a  wider  view — a  wider  view.  There's  our  dear 
Bishop  for  instance — a  saint,  if  ever  there  was  one.  A  saint, 
Ronder,  I  assure  you.  But  there  he  is,  hidden  away  at  Car- 
pledon — out  of  things,  I'm  afraid,  although  of  course  he  doea 
his  best  Then  there's  Sampson.  Well,  I  hardly  need  to 
tell  you  that  he's  not  quite  the  man  to  make  things  hum. 
Not  by  his  own  fault  I  assure  you.  He  does  his  best,  but 
we  are  as  we're  made  .  .  .  yes.  We  can  only  use  the  gifts 
that  God  has  given  us,  and  God  has  not,  undoubtedly,  given 
the  Dean  qiUie  the  gifts  that  we  need  here." 


oirai  PEELUDE  126 

He  paused  and  waited.  He  was  a  cautious  man  and 
weighed  his  words. 

"Then  there's  Brandon,"  said  Ronder  smiling.  "There, 
if  I  may  say  so,  is  a  splendid  character,  a  man  who  gives 
his  whole  life  and  energy  for  the  good  of  the  place — who 
spares  himself  nothing." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Bentinck-Major  took  advan- 
tage of  it  to  look  graver  than  ever. 

"He  strikes  you  like  that,  does  he  ?"  he  said  at  last.  "Well, 
in  many  ways  I  think  you're  right.  Brandon  is  a  good  friend 
of  mine — I  may  say  that  he  thoroughly  appreciates  what 
I've  done  for  this  place.  But  he  is — quite  between  our- 
selves— how  shall  I  put  it  ? — just  a  little  autocratic.  Perhaps 
that's  too  strong  a  word,  but  he  is,  some  think,  a  little  too 
inclined  to  fancy  that  he  runs  the  Cathedral!  That,  mind 
you,  is  only  the  opinion  of  some  here,  and  I  don't  know 
that  I  should  entirely  associate  myself  with  it,  but  perhaps 
there  is  something  in  it.  He  is,  as  you  can  see,  a  man  of 
strong  will  and,  again  between  ourselves,  of  a  considerable 
temper.    This  will  not,  I'm  sure,  go  further  than  ourselves  ?" 

"Absolutely  not,"  said  Ronder. 

"Things  have  been  a  little  slack  here  for  several  years, 
and  although  I've  done  my  own  little  best,  what  is  one 
against  so  many,  if  you  understand  what  I  mean?" 

"Quite,"  said  Render. 

"Well,  nobody  could  call  Branaon  an  unenergetic  man — 
quite  the  reverse.  And,  to  put  it  frankly,  to  oppose  him  one 
needs  courage.  Now  I  may  say  that  I've  opposed  him  on  a 
number  of  occasions  but  have  had  no  backing.  Brandon, 
when  he's  angry,  is  no  light  opponent,  and  the  result  has 
been  that  he's  had,  I'm  afraid,  a  great  deal  of  his  own  way." 

"You're  afraid  ?"  said  Ronder. 

Bentinck-Major  seemed  a  little  nervous  at  being  caught 
up  so  quickly.  He  looked  at  Ronder  suspiciously.  His 
voice  was  sharper  than  it  had  been. 

"Oh,  I  like  Brandon — don't  make  any  mistake  about  that. 


126  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

He  and  I  together  have  done  some  excellent  things  here. 
In  many  ways  he's  admirable.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  have 
done  sometimes  without  his  backing.  All  I  mean  is  that 
he  is  perhaps  a  little  hasty  sometimes." 

"Quite,"  said  Ilonder.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  you've 
helped  me  by  what  you've  told  me.  I'm  sure  you're  right 
in  everj-thing  you've  said.  If  you  were  to  give  me  a  tip 
then,  you'd  say  that  I  couldn't  do  better  than  follow  Bran- 
don.    I'll  remember  that." 

"Well,  no,"  said  Bentinck-Major  rather  hastily.  "I  don't 
know  that  I'd  quite  say  that  either.  Brandon  is  often 
wrong.  I'm  not  sure  either  that  he  has  quite  the  influence 
he  had.  That  silly  little  incident  of  the  elephant  the  other 
day — ^you  heard  that,  didn't  you? — well,  a  trivial  thing, 
but  one  saw  by  the  way  that  the  town  took  it  that  the  Arch- 
deacon isn't  quite  where  he  was.  I  agree  with  him  entirely 
in  his  policy — to  keep  things  as  they  always  have  been. 
That's  the  only  way  to  save  our  Church,  in  my  opinion. 
As  soon  as  they  tell  me  an  idea's  new,  that's  enough  for  me 
.  .  .  I'm  down  on  it  at  once.  But  what  I  do  think  is  that 
his  diplomacy  is  often  faulty.  He  rushes  at  things  like  a 
bull — exactly  like  a  bull.  A  little  too  confident  always.  No, 
if  you  won't  think  me  conceited — and  I  believe  I'm  a  mod- 
est man — you  couldn't  do  better  than  come  to  me — talk  things 
over  with  me,  you  know.  I'm  sure  we'll  see  alike  about  many 
things." 

"I'm  sure  we  will,"  said  Bonder.  "Thank  you  very 
much.  As  you've  been  so  kind  I'm  sure  you  won't  mind  my 
asking  you  a  few  questions.  I  hope  I'm  not  keeping  you 
from  anj-thing." 

"Not  at  all.  Not  at  all,"  said  Bentinck-^lajor  very  gra- 
ciously, and  stretching  his  plump  little  body  back  into  the 
arm-chair.  "Ask  as  many  questions  as  you  like  and  I'll  do 
my  best  to  answer  them." 

Bonder  did  then,  during  the  next  half-hour,  ask  a  great 
many  questions,  and  he  received  a  great  many  answers.   The 


ONE 


PEELUDE  127 


answers  may  not  have  told  him  overmuch  about  the  things 
that  he  wanted  to  know,  but  they  did  tell  him  a  great  deal 
about  Bentinck-Major. 

The  clock  struck  four. 

Eonder  got  up. 

"You  don't  know  ^ow  you  ve  helped  me,"  he  said.  "Yoa've 
told  me  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Thank  you  so 
very  much." 

Bentinck-Major  looked  gratified.  He  had,  in  fact,  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  himself. 

"Oh,  but  you'll  stay  and  have  some  tea,  won't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that.  I've  got  a  pretty  busy  after- 
noon still  in  front  of  me." 

"My  wife  will  be  so  disappointed." 

"You'll  let  me  come  another  day,  won  t  you  ?" 

"Of  course.     Of  course." 

The  Canon  himself  accompanied  his  guest  into  the  hall 
and  opened  the  front  door  for  him. 

"Any  time — any  time — that  I  can  help  you." 

"Thank  you  so  very  much.    Good-bya" 

"Good-bye.     Good-bye." 

So  far  so  good,  but  Render  was  aware  that  his  next 
visit  would  be  quite  another  affair — and  so  indeed  it  proved. 

To  reach  Canon's  Yard  from  Orange  Street,  Render  had 
to  go  down  through  Green  Lane  past  the  Orchards,  and  up 
by  a  steep  path  into  Bodger's  Street  and  the  small  houses 
that  have  clustered  for  many  years  behind  the  Cathedral. 
Here  once  was  Saint  Margaret's  Monastery  utterly  swept 
away,  until  not  a  stone  remained,  by  Henry  VIII. 's  servants. 
Saint  Margaret's  only  memory  lingers  in  the  Saint  Margaret's 
Hostel  for  Women  at  the  top  of  Bodger's  Street,  and  even 
that  has  now  a  worn  and  desolate  air  as  though  it  also  were 
on  the  edge  of  departure.  In  truth,  this  part  of  Polchester 
is  neglected  and  forgotten;  it  has  not  sunk  like  Seatown 
into  dirt  and  degradation,  it  has  still  an  air  of  romance  and 
colour,  but  the  life  is  gone  from  it. 


128  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Canon's  Yard  is  behind  the  Hostel  and  is  a  little  square, 
shnt-in,  cobbled  place  with  tall  thin  houses  closing  it  in  and 
the  Cathedral  towers  overhanging  it.  Rooks  and  bells  and 
the  rattle  of  carts  upon  the  cobbles  make  a  perpetual  clatter 
here,  and  its  atmosphere  is  stuffy  and  begrimed.  When  the 
Cathedral  chimes  ring  they  echo  from  house  to  house,  from 
wall  to  wall,  so  that  it  seems  as  though  the  bells  of  a  hundred 
Cathedrals  were  ringing  here.  ^N^evertheless  from  the  high 
windows  of  the  Yard  there  is  a  fine  view  of  orchards  and 
hills  and  distant  woods — a  view  not  to  be  despised. 

The  house  in  which  Canon  Foster  had  his  rooms  is  one  of 
the  oldest  of  all  the  houses.  The  house  was  kept  by  one 
Mrs.  !Maddis,  who  had  "run"  rooms  for  the  clergy  ever  since 
her  first  marriage,  when  she  was  a  pretty  blushing  girl  of 
twenty.  She  was  now  a  hideous  old  woman  of  eighty,  and 
the  house  was  managed  by  her  married  daughter,  ^Irs. 
Crumpleton.  There  were  three  floors  and  there  should 
have  been  three  clergj-men,  but  for  some  time  the  bottom 
floor  had  been  empty  and  the  middle  apartments  were 
let  to  transient  tenants.  They  were  at  this  moment  inhabited 
by  a  retired  sea-captain. 

Foster  reigned  on  the  top  floor  and  was  quite  oblivious  of 
neighbours,  landladies,  tidiness,  and  the  view — ho  cared, 
by  nature,  for  none  of  these  things.  Render  climbed  up  the 
dirty  dark  staircase  and  knocked  on  the  old  oak  door  that 
had  upon  it  a  dirty  visiting  card  with  Foster's  name.  Wlien 
he  ceased  his  climb  and  the  noise  of  his  footsteps  fell  away 
there  was  a  great  silence.  Not  a  sound  could  be  heard. 
The  bells  were  not  chiming,  the  rooks  were  not  cawing  (it 
was  not  as  yet  their  time)  nor  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Crumple- 
ton to  be  heard,  shrill  and  defiant,  as  was  too  often  the  casa 
The  house  was  dead ;  the  town  was  dead ;  had  the  world  it- 
self suddenly  died,  like  a  candle  whose  light  is  put  out, 
Foster  would  not  have  cared. 

Ronder  knocked  three  times  with  the  knob  of  his  walk- 
ing-stick.    The  man  must  be  out     He  was  about  to  turn 


ONE  PEELUDE  129 

away  and  go  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  as  though  by 
a  secret  life  of  its  own,  and  the  pale  face  and  untidy  per- 
son of  the  Canon,  like  the  apparition  of  a  surprised  and  in- 
dignant revenant,  was  apparent. 

"May  I  oome  in  for  a  moment?"  said  Ronder.  "I  won't 
keep  you  long." 

Foster  stared  at  his  visitor,  said  nothing,  opened  the  door 
a  little  wider,  and  stood  aside.  Ronder  accepted  this  as  an  in- 
vitation and  came  in. 

"You'd  better  come  into  the  other  room,"  said  Foster, 
looking  about  him  as  though  he  had  been  just  ruthlessly 
awakened  from  an  important  dream.  They  passed  through 
a  little  passage  and  an  untidy  sitting-room  into  the  study. 
This  was  a  place  piled  high  with  books  and  its  only  furni- 
ture was  a  deal  table  and  two  straw-bottomed  chairs.  At 
the  table  Foster  had  obviously  been  working.  Books  lay 
about  it  and  papers,  and  there  was  also  a  pile  of  manuscript. 
Foster  looked  around  him,  caught  his  large  ears  in  his  fingers 
and  cracked  them,  and  then  suddenly  said: 

"You'd  better  sit  down.    What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

Ronder  sat  down.  It  was  at  once  apparent  that,  whatever 
the  state  of  the  rooms  might  be,  his  reluctant  host  was 
suddenly  very  wide  awake  indeed.  He  felt,  what  he  had 
known  from  the  very  first  meeting,  that  he  was  in  contact 
here  with  a  man  of  brain,  of  independence,  of  character. 
His  capacity  for  amused  admiration  that  was  one  of  the 
strongest  things  in  him,  was  roused  to  the  full.  Another 
thing  that  he  had  also  by  now  perceived  was  that  Foster 
was  not  that  type,  by  now  so  familiar  to  us  in  the  pages  of 
French  and  English  fiction,  of  the  lost  and  bewildered  old 
clergyman  whose  long  nose  has  been  for  so  many  years 
buried  in  dusty  books  that  he  is  unable  to  smell  the  real 
world.  Foster  was  neither  lost  nor  bewildered.  He  was 
very  much  all  there. 

What  could  he  do  for  Ronder?  Ronder  was,  for  a  mo- 
ment, uncertain.     Here,  he  was  happy  to  think,  he  must  go 


130  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

with  the  greatest  cara  He  did  not  smile  as  he  had  smiled 
upon  Bentinck-Major.    He  spoke  to  Foster  as  to  an  equal. 

"I  can  see  you're  busy,"  he  said.  "All  the  same  I'm  not 
going  to  apologise  for  coming.  I'll  tell  you  frankly  that  I 
want  your  help.  At  the  same  time  I'll  teU  you  that  I  don't 
care  whether  you  give  it  me  or  no." 

"In  what  way  can  I  help  you  ?"  asked  Foster  coldly. 

"There's  to  be  a  Chapter  Meeting  in  a  few  days'  time, 
isn't  there  ?  Honestly  I  haven't  been  here  quite  long  enough 
yet  to  know  how  things  stand.  Questions  may  come  up,  al- 
though there's  nothing  very  important  this  time,  I  believe. 
But  there  may  be  important  things  brewing.  Now  you've 
been  here  a  great  many  years  and  you  have  your  opinion 
of  how  things  should  go.  I  want  your  idea  of  some  of  the 
conditions." 

"You've  come  to  spy  out  the  land,  in  fact  ?" 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  like,"  said  Render  seriously, 
"although  I  don't  think  spying  is  exactly  the  word.  You're 
perfectly  at  liberty,  I  mean,  to  tell  anybody  that  I've  been 
to  see  you  and  to  repeat  to  anybody  what  I  say.  It  simply 
is  that  I  don't  care  to  take  on  all  the  work  that's  being 
shoved  on  to  my  shoulders  without  getting  the  views  of  those 
who  know  the  place  well." 

"Oh,  if  it's  my  views  you  want,"  cried  Foster,  suddenly 
raising  his  voice  and  almost  shouting,  "they're  easy  enough 
to  discover.  They  are  simply  that  everything  here  is  abomin- 
able, going  to  wrack  and  ruin.  .  .  .  Now  you  know  what 
/  think." 

He  looked  down  at  his  manuscript  as  much  as  to  say,  *^ell, 
good  afternoon." 

"Going  to  ruin  in  what  way?"  asked  Render. 

"In  the  way  that  the  country  is  going  to  ruin — because  it 
has  turned  its  back  upon  God." 

There  was  a  pause.  Suddenly  Foster  flung  out,  "Do  you 
believe  in  God,  Canon  Render?'* 


ONE  PRELUDE  131 

"I  think,"  said  Ronder,  "tlie  fact  that  I'm  in  the  position 
I'm  in " 

"Nonsense,"  interrupted  Foster.  "That's  anybody's  an- 
swer.    You  don't  look  like  a  spiritual  man." 

"I'm  fat,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  said  Render  smiling. 
"That's  my  misfortune." 

"If  I've  been  rude,"  said  Foster  more  mildly,  "forgive 
me.  I  am  rude  these  days.  I've  given  up  trying  not  to  be. 
The  truth  is  that  I'm  sick  to  the  heart  with  all  their  worldli- 
ness,  shams,  lies,  seliishnees,  idleness.  You  may  be  better 
than  they.  You  may  not.  I  don't  know.  If  you've  come 
here  determined  to  wake  them  all  up  and  improve  things, 
then  I  wish  you  God-speed.  But  you  won't  do  it.  You 
needn't  think  you  will.  If  you've  come  like  the  rest  to  get 
what  you  can  out  of  it,  then  I  don't  think  you'll  find  my 
company  good  for  you." 

"I  certainly  haven't  come  to  wake  them  up,"  said  Render. 
"I  don't  believe  that  to  be  my  duty.  I'm  not  made  that 
way.  Nor  can  I  honestly  believe  things  to  be  as  bad  as  you 
say.  But  I  do  intend,  with  God's  help,  to  do  my  best.  If 
that's  not  good  enough  for  you,  then  you  must  abandon  me 
to  my  fate." 

Foster  seemed  to  appreciate  that.     He  nodded  his  head. 

"That's  honest  at  any  rate,"  he  said.  "It's  the  first  honest 
thing  I've  heard  here  for  a  long  time  except  from  the  Bishop. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had  thought  you  were  going  to  work 
in  with  Brandon.  One  more  of  his  sheep.  If  that  were 
to  be  so  the  less  we  saw  of  one  another  the  better." 

"I  have  not  been  here  long  enough,"  said  Render,  "to  think 
of  working  in  with  anybody.  And  I  don't  wish  to  take  sides. 
There's  my  duty  to  the  Cathedral.  I  shall  work  for  that 
and  let  the  rest  go." 

"There's  your  duty  to  God,"  said  Foster  vehemently. 
"That's  the  thing  that  everybody  here's  forgotten.  But  you 
don't  sound  as  though  you'd  go  Brandon's  way.  That's 
something  in  your  favour." 


132  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

*^Why  should  one  go  Brandon's  way?"  Render  asked. 

''Why?  ^Vhy?  Why?  Why  do  sheep  huddle  together 
■when  the  dog  barks  at  their  heels?  .  .  .  But  I  respect  him. 
Don't  you  mistake  me.  He's  a  man  to  be  respected.  He's 
got  courage.  He  cares  for  the  Cathedral.  He's  a  hundred 
years  behind,  that's  all.  He's  read  nothing,  he  knows  noth- 
ing, he's  a  child — and  does  infinite  harm.  .  .  ."  He  looked 
up  at  Bonder  and  said  quite  mildly,  "Is  there  an^-thing 
more  you  want  to  know?" 

"There's  talk,"  said  Render,  "about  the  living  at  Pybus 
St.  Anthony.  It's  apparently  an  important  place,  and 
when  there's  an  appointment  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  form 
an  opinion  about  the  best  man " 

"What!  is  Morrison  dead?"  said  Foster  eagerly. 

"No,  but  very  ill,  I  believe." 

"Well,  there's  only  one  possible  appointment  for  that 
place,  and  that  is  Wistons." 

"Wistons?"   repeated  Render. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Foster  impatiently,  "the  author  of  The 
New  Apocalypse — the  rector  of  St.  Edward's,  Hawston." 

Render  remembered.  "A  stranger  ?"  he  said.  "I  thought 
that  it  would  have  to  be  seme  one  in  the  diocese." 

Foster  did  not  hear  him.  "I've  been  waiting  for  this 
— to  get  Wistons  here — for  years,"  he  said.  "A  wonderful 
man — a  great  man.  He'll  wake  the  place  up.  We  must  have 
him.  As  to  local  men,  the  more  strangers  we  let  in  here 
the  better." 

"Brandon  said  something  about  a  man  called  Forsyth — 
Rex  Forsyth?" 

Foster  smiled  grimly.  "Yes — he  would,"  he  said,  "that's 
just  his  kind  of  appointment.  Well,  if  he  tries  to  pull  that 
through  there'll  be  such  a  battle  as  this  placo  has  never  seen." 

Render  said  slowly.  "I  like  your  idea  of  Wistons.  That 
sounds  interesting." 

Foster  looked  at  him  with  a  new  intensity. 

"Would  you  help  mo  about  that?"  he  asked. 


ONE  PKELUDE  133 

"I  don't  know  quite  where  I  am  yet,"  said  Ronder,  "but 
I  think  you'll  find  me  a  friend  rather  than  an  enemy,  Fos- 
ter." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  are,"  said  Foster.  "So  far  as  my 
feelings  or  happiness  go,  nothing  matters.  But  to  have 
Wistons  here — in  this  place.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  we  could  do ! 
What  we  could  do  !" 

He  seemed  to  be  lost  in  a  dream.  Five  minutes  later  he 
roused  himself  to  say  good-bye.  Ronder  once  more  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  felt  about  him  again  the  strange  stillness  of 
the  house. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


SON FATHEB 


FALK  BRANDON"  was  still,  in  reality,  a  boy.  He,  of 
course,  did  not  know  this  and  would  have  been  very 
indignant  had  any  one  told  him  so;  it  was  nevertheless  the 
truth. 

There  is  a  kind  of  confidence  of  youth  that  has  great  charm, 
a  sort  of  assumption  of  grown-up  manners  and  worldly  ways 
that  is  accompanied  with  an  ingenuous  belief  in  human  na- 
ture, a  naive  trust  in  human  goodness.  One  sees  it  some- 
times in  books,  in  stories  that  are  like  a  charade  acted  by 
children  dressed  in  their  elders'  clothes,  and  although  these 
tales  are  nothing  but  fairy  stories  in  their  actual  relation 
to  life,  the  sincerity  of  their  belief  in  life,  and  a  kind  of 
freshness  that  come  from  ignorance,  give  them  a  power  of 
their  own. 

Falk  had  some  of  this  charm  and  power  just  as  his  father 
had,  but  whereas  his  father  would  keep  it  all  his  days,  Falk 
would  certainly  lose  it  as  he  learnt  more  and  went  more 
into  the  world.     But  as  yet  he  had  not  lost  it. 

This  emotion  that  had  now  gained  such  control  over  him 
was  the  first  real  emotion  of  his  life,  and  he  did  not  know 
in  the  least  how  to  deal  with  it  He  was  like  a  man  caught 
in  a  baffling  fog.  He  did  not  know  in  the  least  whether  he 
were  in  love  with  this  girl,  he  did  not  know  what  he  wanted 
to  do  with  her,  he  sometimes  fancied  that  he  hated  her,  he 
could  not  see  her  clearly  either  mentally  or  physically ;  he  only 
know  that  he  could  not  keep  away  from  her,  and  that  with 
every  meeting  he  approaches!  more  nearly  the  moment  when 

134 


PEELUDE  135 

he  would  commit  some  desperate  action  that  he  would  prob- 
ably regret  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

But  although  he  could  not  see  her  clearly  he  could  see 
sharply  enough  the  other  side  of  the  situation — the  prac- 
tical, home,  filial  side.  It  was  strange  how,  as  the  affair 
advanced,  he  was  more  and  more  conscious  of  his  father.  It 
was  as  though  he  were  an  outsider,  a  friend  of  his  father's, 
but  no  relation  to  the  family,  who  watched  a  calamity  ap- 
proach ever  more  closely  and  was  powerless  to  stop  it.  Al- 
though he  was  only  a  boy  he  realised  very  sufficiently  his 
father's  love  for  him  and  pride  in  him.  He  realized,  too, 
his  father's  dependence  upon  his  dignity  and  position  in  the 
town,  and,  last  and  most  important  of  all,  his  father's  pas- 
sionate devotion  to  the  Cathedral.  All  these  things  would 
be  bruised  were  he,  Ealk,  involved  in  any  local  scandaL 
Here  he  saw  into  himself  and,  with  a  bitterness  and  humility 
that  were  quite  new  to  him,  despised  himself.  He  knew,  as 
though  he  saw  future  events  passing  in  procession  before 
him,  that  if  such  a  scandal  did  break  out  he  would  not 
be  able  to  stay  in  the  place  and  face  it — not  because  he  him- 
self feared  any  human  being  alive,  but  because  he  could  not 
see  his  father  suffer  under  it. 

Well,  then,  since  he  saw  so  clearly,  why  not  abandon  it< 
all?  Why  not  run  away,  obtain  some  kind  of  work  in 
London  and  leave  Polchester  until  the  madness  had  passed 
away  from  him? 

He  could  not  go. 

He  would  have  been  one  of  the  first  to  scorn  another 
man  in  such  a  position,  to  mock  his  weakness  and  despise 
him.  Well,  let  that  be  so.  He  despised  himself  but — ^he 
could  not  go. 

He  was  always  telling  himself  that  soon  the  situation 
would  clear  and  that  he  would  then  know  how  to  act.  Until 
that  happened  he  must  see  her,  must  talk  to  her,  must  be 
with  her,  must  watch  her.     They  had  had,  by  now,  a  num- 


136  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

ber  of  meetings,  always  in  the  evening  by  the  river,  when 
her  father  was  away,  up  in  the  town. 

He  had  kissed  her  twica  She  had  been  quite  passive  on 
each  occasion,  watching  him  ironically  with  a  sort  of  dry 
amusement.  She  had  given  him  no  sign  that  she  cared  for 
him,  and  their  conversation  had  always  been  bare  and  un- 
satisfactory.   Once  she  had  said  to  him  with  sudden  passion ; 

"I  want  to  get  away  out  of  this."  He  had  asked  her 
where  she  wanted  to  go. 

*'An>'Avhero — London."  He  had  asked  her  whether  she 
would  go  with  him. 

"I  would  go  with  any  one,"  she  had  said.  Afterwards 
she  added:     "But  you  won't  take  me." 

''Why  not  ?"  he  had  asked. 

"Because  I'm  not  in  love  with  you." 

"You  may  be — yet." 

"I'd  be  anything  to  get  away,"  she  had  replied. 

On  a  lovely  evening  he  went  down  to  see  her,  determined 
that  this  time  he  would  give  himself  some  definite  answer. 
Just  before  he  turned  down  to  the  river  he  passed  Samuel 
Hogg.  That  large  and  smiling  gentleman,  a  fat  cigar  be- 
tween his  lips,  was  sauntering,  with  a  friend,  on  his  way  to 
Murdock's  billiard  tables. 

"Even in',  ^Ir.  Brandon." 

"Good  evening,  Hogg." 

"lively  weather." 

"Lovely." 

The  shadows,  faintly  pink  on  the  rise  of  the  hill,  engulfed 
his  fat  body.  Falk  wondered  as  he  had  before  now  done 
many  times,  How  much  does  he  know?  What's  he  think- 
ing? What's  he  want?  .  .  .  The  river,  at  high  tide,  very 
gently  lapped  the  side  of  the  old  wall.  Its  colour  to-night 
was  pure  crystal  green,  the  banks  and  the  hills  smoky  grey 
behind  it.  Tiny  pink  clouds  ran  in  little  fleets  across  the 
sky,  chasing  one  another  in  and  out  between  the  streamers 
of  smoke  that  rose  from  the  tranquil  chimneys.     Seatown 


ONE  PKELUDE  137 

was  at  rest  this  evening,  scarcely  a  sound  came  from  the  old 
houses;  the  birds  could  be  heard  calling  from  the  mead- 
ows beyond  the  river.  The  pink  clouds  faded  into  a  rosy 
shadow,  then  that  in  its  turn  gave  way  to  a  sky  faintly 
green  and  pointed  with  stars.  Grey  mist  enveloped  the 
meadows  and  the  river,  and  the  birds  cried  no  longer.  There 
was  a  smell  of  onions  and  rank  seaweed  in  the  air. 

Talk's  love-story  pursued  at  first  its  usual  realistic  course. 
She  was  there  near  the  waterfall  waiting  for  him ;  they  had 
very  little  to  say  to  one  another.  She  was  depressed  to-night, 
and  he  fancied  that  she  had  been  crying.  She  was  not  so 
attractive  to  him  in  such  a  mood.  He  liked  her  best  when 
she  was  intolerant,  scornful,  aloof.  To-night,  although  she 
showed  no  signs  of  caring  for  him,  she  surrendered  herself 
absolutely.  He  could  do  what  he  liked  with  her.  But  he 
did  not  want  to  do  anything  with  her. 

She  leaned  over  the  Seatown  wall  looking  desolately  in 
front  of  her. 

At  last  she  turned  round  to  him  and  asked  him  what  she 
had  asked  him  before: 

"What  do  you  come  after  me  for?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"It  isn't  because  you  love  me." 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  know — there's  no  mistakin'  it  when  it's  there.  I've 
lain  awake  a  lot  o'  nights  wondering  what  you're  after.  You 
must  have  your  reasons.     You  take  a  deal  o'  trouble." 

Then  she  put  her  hand  on  his.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  ever,  of  her  own  accord,  touched  him. 

"I'm  gettin'  to  like  you,"  she  said.  "Seein'  so  much  of 
you,  I  suppose.  You're  only  a  boy  when  all's  said.  And 
then,  somehow  or  another,  men  don't  go  after  me.  You're 
the  only  one  that  ever  has.  They  say  I'm  stuck  up.  .  .  . 
Oh,  man,  but  I'm  unhappy  here  at  home !" 

"Well,  then — you'd  better  come  away  with  me — to  Lon- 
don." 


138  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Even  as  he  said  it  he  would  have  caught  the  words  back. 
What  use  for  them  to  go  ?  Nothing  to  live  on,  no  true  com- 
panionship .  .  .  there  could  be  only  oiie  end  to  that 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

*^o — if  you  cared  for  me  enough,  mebbc  I'd  go.  But  I 
don't  know  that  we'd  be  together  long  if  we  did.  I  want 
my  own  life,  my  own,  own,  own  life!  I  can  look  after 
myself  all  right.  .  .  .  I'll  be  off  by  myself  alone  one  day." 

Then  suddenly  he  wanted  her  as  urgently  as  he  had  ever 
done. 

"No,  you  must  never  do  that,"  he  said.  "If  you  go  it 
must  be  with  ma  You  must  have  some  one  to  look  after 
you.     You  don't  know  what  London's  like." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  passionately, 
and  she  seemed  to  him  a  new  woman  altogether,  created  by 
her  threat  that  she  would  go  away  alone. 

She  passively  let  him  kiss  her,  then  with  a  little  turn  in  his 
arms  and  a  little  sigh  she  very  gently  kissed  him  of  her 
own  will. 

"I  believe  I  could  care  for  'ee,"  she  said  softly.  "And 
I  want  to  care  for  some  one  terrible  bad." 

They  were  nearer  in  spirit  than  they  had  ever  been  be- 
fore; an  emotion  of  simple  human  companionship  had  crept 
into  the  unsettled  disturbance  and  quieted  it  and  deepened 
it.  She  wore  in  his  eyes  a  new  aspect,  something  wise  and 
reasonable  and  comfortable.  She  would  never  be  quite  so 
mysterious  to  him  again,  but  her  hold  on  him  now  was 
firmer.  He  was  suddenly  sorry  for  her  as  well  as  for  him- 
self. 

For  the  first  time  he  left  her  that  night  with  a  sense  that 
comradeship  might  grow  between  them. 

But  as  he  went  back  up  the  hill  he  was  terribly  depressed 
and  humiliated.  lie  hated  and  despised  himself  for  long- 
ing after  something  that  he  did  not  really  want.  He  had 
always,  he  fancied,  done  that,  as  though  there  would  never  be 


ONE 


PRELUDE  139 


time  enough  in  life  for  all  the  things  that  he  would  wish 
to  test  and  to  reject. 

When  he  went  to  bed  that  night  he  was  in  rebellion  with 
all  the  world,  but  before  he  fell  asleep  Annie  Hogg  seemed 
to  come  to  him,  a  gentler,  kinder  spirit,  and  to  say  to  him, 
"It'll  be  all  right.  .  .  .  I'll  look  after  'ee.  .  .  .  I'll  look 
after  'ee,"  and  he  seemed  to  sink  to  sleep  in  her  arms. 

Next  morning  Ealk  and  Joan  had  breakfast  alone  with 
their  father,  a  headache  having  laid  Mrs.  Brandon  low. 
Falk  was  often  late  for  breakfast,  but  to-day  had  woken 
very  early,  had  got  up  and  gone  out  and  walked  through 
the  grey  mist,  turning  his  own  particular  trouble  over  and 
over  in  his  mind.  To-day  Annie  had  faded  back  from  him 
again;  that  tenderness  that  he  had  felt  for  her  last  night 
seemed  to  have  vanished,  and  he  was  aware  only  of  a  savage 
longing  to  shake  himself  free  of  his  burden.  He  had  visions 
this  morning  of  going  up  to  London  and  looking  for 
work.  .  .  . 

Joan  saw  that  to-day  was  a  "Chapter  morning"  day. 
She  always  knew  by  her  father's  appearance  when  there  was 
to  be  a  Chapter  Meeting.  He  had  then  an  extra  gloss,  an 
added  splendour,  and  also  an  added  importance.  He  really 
was  the  smartest  old  thing,  she  thought,  looking  at  him  this 
morning  with  affectionate  pride.  He  looked  as  though  he 
spent  his  time  in  springing  in  and  out  of  cold  baths. 

The  importance  was  there  too.  He  had  the  GlehsMre 
Morning  News  propped  up  in  front  of  him,  and  every  now 
and  then  he  would  poke  his  fine  head  up  over  it  and  look 
at  his  children  and  the  breakfast-table  and  give  them  a  little 
of  the  world's  news.  In  former  days  it  had  been  only  at  the 
risk  of  their  little  lives  that  they  had  spoken  to  one  another. 
Now,  although  restrictions  had  broken  down,  they  would 
always  hear,  if  their  voices  were  loud: 

"Come,  children  .  .  .  come,  come.  Mayn't  your  father 
read  the  newspaper  in  quiet?  Plenty  of  time  to  chatter 
during  the  rest  of  the  day." 


140  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

He  would  break  forth  into  little  sentences  and  exclama- 
tions as  he  read.  ''AiVell,  that's  settled  Burnett's  hash. — 
Serve  him  right,  too.  .  .  .  Dear,  dear,  five  shillings  a  hun- 
dred now.  Phillpott's  going  to  St.  Lummen  I  What  an  ap- 
pointment !  .  .  ."  and  so  on. 

Sometimes  he  would  grow  so  deeply  agitated  that  he 
would  push  die  paper  away  from  him  and  wave  vaguely  about 
the  table  with  his  hands  as  though  he  were  learning  to 
swim,  letting  out  at  the  same  time  little  snorts  of  indignation 
and  wonder: 

"The  fools!  The  idiots!  Savage,  of  all  men!  Fancy 
listening  to  him!  Well,  they'll  only  get  what  they  deserve 
for  their  weakness.  I  wrote  to  Benson,  too — might  as  well 
have  written  to  a  rhinoceros.  Toast,  please,  Joan ! — Toast, 
toast.  Didn't  you  hear  me?  Savage!  What  can  they  be 
thinking  of?  Yes,  and  butter.  ...  Of  course  I  said 
butter." 

But  on  "Chapter  Days"  it  was  difficult  for  the  newspaper 
to  disturb  him.  His  mind  was  filled  with  thoughts  for  the 
plan  and  policy  of  the  morning.  It  was  unfortunately  im- 
possible for  him  ever  to  grasp  two  things  at  the  same  time, 
and  this  made  his  reasoning  and  the  development  of  any 
plan  that  he  had  rather  slow.  When  the  Chapter  was  to  be 
an  important  one  he  would  not  look  at  the  newspaper  at  all 
and  would  eat  scarcely  any  breakfast.  To-day,  because  the 
Chapter  was  a  little  one,  he  allowed  himself  to  consider  the 
outside  world.  That  really  was  the  beginning  of  his  mis- 
fortune, because  the  paper  this  morning  contained  a  very 
vivid  picture  of  the  loss  of  the  Drummond  Castle.  That  was 
an  old  story  by  this  time,  but  here  was  some  especial  ac- 
count that  provided  new  details  and  circumstances,  giving 
a  fresh  vivid  horror  to  the  scene  even  at  this  distance  of 
time. 

Brandon  tried  not  to  read  the  thing.  He  made  it  a  rule 
that  he  would  not  distress  himself  with  the  thought  of  evils 
that  he  could  not  cure.     That  is  what  he  told  himself,  but 


ONE  PKELUDE  141 

indeed  his  whole  life  was  spent  in  warding  off  and  shutting 
out  and  refusing  to  listen. 

He  had  told  himself  many  years  ago  that  it  was  a  perfect 
world  and  that  God  had  made  it  and  that  God  was  good. 
To  maintain  this  belief  it  was  necessary  that  one  should 
not  be  "Presumptuous."  It  was  "Presumptuous"  to  imag- 
ine for  a  moment  about  any  single  thing  that  it  was  a  "mis- 
take." If  anything  were  evil  or  painful  it  was  there  to  "try 
and  test"  us.  ...  A  kind  of  spring-board  over  the  waters 
of  salvation. 

Once,  some  years  ago,  a  wicked  atheist  had  written  an 
article  in  a  magazine  manifesting  how  evil  nature  was,  how 
the  animals  preyed  upon  one  another,  how  everything  from 
the  tiniest  insect  to  the  largest  elephant  suffered  and  suf- 
fered and  suffered.  How  even  the  vegetation  lived  a  short 
life  of  agony  and  frustration,  and  then  fell  into  foul  decay. 
.  .  .  Brandon  had  read  the  article  against  his  will,  and 
had  then  hated  the  writer  of  it  with  so  deep  a  hatred  that 
he  would  have  had  him  horse-whipped,  had  he  had  the  power. 
The  article  upset  him  for  days,  and  it  was  only  by  asserting 
to  himself  again  and  again  that  it  was  untrue,  by  watching 
kittens  at  play  and  birds  singing  on  the  branches  and  roses 
bursting  from  bud  to  bloom,  that  he  could  reassure  himself. 

Now  to-day  here  was  the  old  distress  back  again.  There 
was  no  doubt  but  that  those  men  and  women  on  the  Drum- 
mond  Castle  had  suffered  in  order  to  win  quite  securely  for 
themselves  a  crown  of  glory.  He  ought  to  envy  them,  to 
regret  that  he  had  not  been  given  the  same  chance,  and  yet 
— and  yet 

He  pushed  the  paper  impatiently  away  from  him.  It  was 
good  that  there  was  nothing  important  to  be  discussed  at 
Chapter  this  morning,  because  really  he  was  not  in  the  mood 
to  fight  battles.  He  sighed.  Why  was  it  always  he  that  had 
to  fight  battles?  He  had  indeed  the  burden  of  the  whole 
town  upon  his  shoulders.  And  at  that  secretly  he  felt  a 
great  joy.    He  was  glad — ^yes,  he  was  glad  that  he  had.  .  .  . 


142  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

As  he  looked  over  at  Joan  and  Falk  he  felt  tenderly 
towards  them.  His  reading  then  about  the  Drummond  Castle 
made  him  anxious  that  they  should  have  a  good  time  and 
be  happy.  It  might  be  better  for  them  that  they  should  suf- 
fer ;  nevertheless,  if  they  could  be  sure  of  heaven  and  at  the 
same  time  not  suffer  too  badly  he  would  be  glad. 

Suddenly  then,  across  the  breakfast-table,  a  picture  drove 
itself  in  front  of  him — a  picture  of  Joan  with  her  baby-face, 
Btruggling  in  the  water.  .  .  .  She  screamed;  she  tried  to 
catch  on  to  the  side  of  a  boat  with  her  hand.  Some  one 
gtruck  her.  .  .  . 

With  a  shudder  of  disgust  he  drove  it  from  him. 

"Pah !"  he  cried  aloud,  getting  up  from  the  table. 

"What  is  it,  father?"  Joan  asked. 

"People  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  to  write  such  things,"  he 
said,  and  went  to  his  study. 

When  an  hour  later  he  sallied  forth  to  the  Chapter  Meet- 
ing he  had  recovered  his  equanimity.  His  mind  now  was 
nailed  to  the  business  on  hand.  Most  innocently  as  he  crossed 
the  Cathedral  Green  he  strutted,  his  head  up,  his  brow 
stem,  his  hands  crossed  behind  his  back.  The  choristers 
coming  in  from  the  choir-school  practice  in  the  Cathedral 
passed  him  in  a  ragged  line.  They  all  touched  their  mortar- 
boards and  he  smiled  benignly  upon  them,  reserving  a  rather 
stem  glance  for  Brockett,  the  organist,  of  whose  musical 
eccentricities  he  did  not  at  all  approve. 

Little  remained  now  of  the  original  Chapter  House 
which  had  once  been  a  continuation  of  Saint  Margaret's 
Chapel.  Some  extremely  fine  Early  Norman  arches  which 
were  once  part  of  the  Chapter  House  are  still  there  and  may 
be  seen  at  the  southern  end  of  the  Cloisters.  Here,  too,  are 
traces  of  the  dormitory  and  infirmary  which  formerly  stood 
there.  The  present  Chapter  House  consists  of  two  rooms  ad- 
joining the  Cloisters,  once  a  hall  used  by  the  monks  as  a 
large  refectory.  There  is  still  a  timber  roof  of  late  thirteenth- 
century  work,  and  this  is  supposed  to  have  been  once  part 


OlfE 


PRELUDE  143 


of  the  old  pilgrims'  or  strangers'  hall.  The  larger  of  the 
two  rooms  is  reserved  for  the  Chapter  Meetings,  the  smaller 
being  used  for  minor  meetings  and  informal  discussions. 

The  Archdeacon  was  a  little  late  as,  I  am  afraid,  he  liked 
to  be  when  he  was  sure  that  others  would  be  punctual. 
Nothing,  however,  annoyed  him  more  than  to  find  others  late 
when  he  himself  was  in  time.  There  they  all  were  and  how 
exactly  he  knew  how  they  would  all  be! 

There  was  the  long  oak  table,  blotting  paper  and  writing 
materials  neatly  placed  before  each  seat,  there  the  fine  walls 
in  which  he  always  took  so  great  a  pride,  with  the  portraits 
of  the  Polchester  Bishops  in  grand  succession  upon  them. 
At  the  head  of  the  table  was  the  Dean,  nervously  with  anx- 
ious smiles  looking  about  him.  On  the  right  was  Brandon's 
seat;  on  the  left  Witheram,  seriously  approaching  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day  as  though  his  very  life  depended  upon  it; 
then  Bentinck-Major,  his  hands  looking  as  though  they  had 
been  manicured ;  next  to  him  Ryle,  laughing  obsequiously  at 
some  fashionable  joke  that  Bentinck-Major  had  delivered  to 
him;  opposite  to  him  Foster,  looking  as  though  he  had  not 
had  a  meal  for  a  week  and  badly  shaved  with  a  cut  on  his 
chin;  and  next  to  him  Render. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  table  was  little  Bond,  the  Chapter 
Clerk,  sucking  his  pencil. 

Brandon  took  his  place  with  dignified  apologies  for  his 
late  arrival. 

"Let  us  ask  God  for  His  blessing  on  our  work  to-day," 
said  the  Dean. 

A  prayer  followed,  then  general  rustling  and  shufiling, 
blowing  of  noses,  coughing  and  even,  from  the  surprised  and 
consternated  Ryle,  a  sneeze — then  the  business  of  the  day 
began.  The  minutes  of  the  last  meeting  were  read,  and  there 
was  a  little  amiable  discussion.  At  once  Brandon  was  con- 
scious of  Render.  Why  ?  He  could  not  tell  and  was  the  more 
uncomfortable.  The  man  said  nothing.  He  had  not  been 
present  at  the  last  meeting  and  could  therefore  have  nothing 


144  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

to  Bay  to  this  part  of  the  business.  He  sat  there,  his  spec- 
tacles catching  the  light  from  the  opposite  windows  so  that 
he  seemed  to  have  no  eyes.  His  chubby  body,  the  position 
in  which  he  was  sitting,  hunched  up,  leaning  forward  on  his 
arms,  spoke  of  perfect  and  almost  sleepy  content.  His  round 
face  and  fat  cheeks  gave  him  the  air  of  a  man  to  whom 
business  was  a  tiresome  and  unnecessary  interference  with 
the  pleasures  of  lifa 

Nevertheless,  Brandon  was  so  deeply  aware  of  Render  that 
again  and  again,  against  his  will,  his  eyes  wandered  in  his 
direction.  Once  or  twice  Brandon  said  something,  not  be- 
cause he  had  anything  really  to  say,  but  because  he  wanted 
to  impress  himself  upon  Render.  All  agreed  with  him  in  the 
complacent  and  contented  way  that  they  had  always 
agreed.  .  .  . 

Then  his  consciousness  of  Render  extended  and  gave  him 
a  new  consciousness  of  the  other  men.  He  had  known  for  so 
long  exactly  how  they  looked  and  the  words  that  they  would 
say,  that  they  were,  to  him,  rather  like  the  stone  images  of 
the  Twelve  Apostles  in  the  niches  roimd  the  West  Door. 
Today  they  jumped  in  a  moment  into  new  life.  Yesterday 
he  could  have  calculated  to  a  nicety  the  attitude  that  they 
would  have ;  now  they  seemed  to  have  been  blown  askew  with 
a  new  wind.  Because  he  noticed  these  things  it  does  not 
mean  that  ho  was  generally  perceptive.  He  had  always  been 
very  sharp  to  perceive  anything  that  concerned  his  own  po- 
sition. 

Business  proceeded  and  every  one  displayed  his  own  espe- 
cial characteristics.  Nothing  arose  that  concerned  Render. 
J] very  one's  personal  opinion  about  every  one  else  was  clearly 
apparent.  It  was  a  fine  thing,  for  instance,  to  observe  Fos- 
ter's soom  and  contempt  whilst  Bentinck-Major  explained 
his  little  idea  about  certain  little  improvements  that  he,  as 
Chancellor,  might  naturally  suggest,  or  Ryle's  attitude  of 
goodwill  to  all  and  sundry  as  he  apologised  for  certain  of 
Brockett's  voluntaries  and  assured  Brandon  on  one  side  that 


ONE  PRELUDE  145 

"something  should  be  done  about  it,"  and  agreed  with  Ben- 
tinck-Major  on  the  other  that  it  was  indeed  agreeable  to  hear 
sometimes  music  a  little  more  advanced  and  original  than 
one  usually  found  in  Cathedrals. 

Brandon  sniffed  something  of  incipient  rebellion  in  Ben- 
tinck-Major's  attitude  and  looked  across  the  table  severely. 
Bentinck-Major  blinked  and  nervously  examined  his  nails. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Archdeacon  in  his  most  solemn 
manner,  "there  may  be  people  who  wish  to  turn  the  Cathe- 
dral into  a  music-hall.  I  don't  say  there  are,  but  there  may 
be.  In  these  strange  times  nothing  would  astonish  me.  In 
my  own  humble  opinion  what  was  good  enough  for  our  fathers 
is  good  enough  for  us.  However,  don't  let  my  opinion  influ- 
ence any  one." 

"I  assure  you,  Archdeacon,"  said  Bentinck-Major.  With- 
eram  earnestly  assured  every  one  that  he  was  certain  there 
need  be  no  alarm.  They  could  trust  the  Precentor  to  see. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  general  murmur.  Yes,  they  could  trust 
the  Precentor. 

This  little  matter  being  settled,  the  meeting  was  very  near 
an  agreeable  conclusion  and  the  Dean  was  beginning  to 
congratulate  himself  on  the  early  return  to  his  botany — when, 
unfortunately,  there  cropped  up  the  question  of  the  garden- 
roller. 

This  matter  of  the  garden-roller  was  a  simple  one  enough. 
The  Cathedral  School  had  some  months  ago  requested  the 
Chapter  to  allow  it  to  purchase  for  itself  a  new  garden-roller. 
Such  an  article  was  seriously  needed  for  the  new  cricket-field. 
It  was  true  that  the  School  already  possessed  two  garden- 
rollers,  but  one  of  these  was  very  small — "quite  a  baby  one," 
Dennison,  the  headmaster,  explained  pathetically — and  the 
other  could  not  possibly  cover  all  the  work  that  it  had  to  do. 
The  School  grounds  were  large  ones. 

The  matter,  which  was  one  that  mainly  concerned  the 
Treasury  side  of  the  Chapter,  had  been  discussed  at  the  last 
meeting,  and  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  argument  about  it. 


146  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Brandon  had  then  vetoed  it,  not  because  he  cared  in  the 
least  whether  or  no  the  School  had  a  garden-roller,  but  be- 
cause, Hart-Smith  having  left  and  Rouder  being  not  yet 
with  them,  he  was  in  charge,  for  the  moment,  of  the  Cathe- 
dral funds.  He  liked  to  feel  his  power,  and  so  he  refused 
as  many  things  as  possible.  Had  it  not  been  only  a  tem- 
porary glory — had  he  been  permanent  Treasurer — he  would 
in  all  probability  have  acted  in  exactly  the  opposite  way 
and  allowed  everybody  to  have  everything. 

"There's  the  question  of  the  garden-roller,"  said  Witheram, 
just  as  the  Dean  was  about  to  propose  that  they  should  close 
with  a  prayer. 

"I've  got  it  here  on  the  minutes,"  said  the  Chapter  Clerk 
severely. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  said  the  Dean,  looking  about  him  rather 
piteously.     "Now  what  shall  we  do  about  it?" 

"I^t  'em  have  it,"  said  Foster,  glaring  across  at  Brandon 
and  shutting  his  mouth  like  a  trap. 

This  was  a  direct  challenge.  Brandon  felt  his  breast 
charged  with  the  noble  anger  that  always  filled  it  when 
Foster  said  an^-thing. 

"I  must  confess,"  he  said,  covering,  as  he  always  did  when 
he  intended  something  to  be  final,  the  Dean  with  his  eye, 
"that  I  thought  that  this  was  quite  definitely  settled  at  last 
Chapter;  I  understood — I  may  of  course  have  been  mistaken 
— that  we  considered  that  we  could  not  aiford  the  thing  and 
that  the  School  must  wait." 

"Well,  Archdeacon,"  said  the  Dean  nervously  (he  knew  of 
old  the  danger-signals  in  Brandon's  flashing  eyes),  "I  must 
confess  that  I  hadn't  thought  it  qidte  so  -definite  as  that. 
Certainly  we  discussed  the  expense  of  the  affair." 

"I  think  the  Archdeacon's  right,"  said  Bentinck-Major, 
who  wanted  to  win  his  way  back  to  favour  after  the  little  mis- 
take about  the  music.     "It  was  settled,  I  think." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Foster  fiercely.  "We  settled 
nothing." 


ONE  PKELUDE  147 

"How  does  it  read  on  the  minutes?"  asked  the  Dean 
nervously. 

"Postponed  until  the  next  meeting,"  said  the  Clerk. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Brandon,  feeling  that  this  absurd  dis- 
cussion had  gone  on  quite  long  enough,  "the  matter  is  sim- 
ple enough.  It  can  be  settled  immediately.  Any  one  who 
has  gone  into  the  matter  at  all  closely  will  have  discovered 
first  that  the  School  doesn't  need  a  roller — they've  enough 
already — secondly,  that  the  Treasury  cannot  possibly  at  the 
present  moment  afford  to  buy  a  new  one." 

"I  really  must  protest.  Archdeacon,"  said  Foster,  "this 
is. going  too  far.  In  the  first  place,  have  you  yourself  gone 
into  the  case?" 

Brandon  paused  before  he  answered.  He  felt  that  all  eyes 
were  upon  him.  He  also  felt  that  Foster  had  been  stirred  to 
a  new  strength  of  hostility  by  some  one — ^he  fancied  he  knew 
by  whom.  Moreover,  had  he  gone  into  it?  He  was  aware 
with  a  stirring  of  impatience  that  he  had  not.  He  had  in- 
tended to  do  so,  but  time  had  been  short,  the  matter  had  not 
seemed  of  sufficient  importance.  .  .  . 

"I  certainly  have  gone  into  it,"  he  said,  "quite  as  far  as 
the  case  deserves.     The  facts  are  clear." 

"The  facts  are  not  clear,"  said  Foster  angrily.  "I  say 
that  the  School  should  have  this  roller  and  that  we  are  be- 
having with  abominable  meanness  in  preventing  it";  and 
he  banged  his  fist  upon  the  table. 

"If  that  charge  of  meanness  is  intended  personally,  ..." 
said  Brandon  angrily. 

"I  assure  you.  Archdeacon,  .  .  ."  said  Ryle.  The  Dean 
raised  a  hand  in  protest. 

"I  don't  think,"  he  said,  "that  anything  here  is  ever  in- 
tended personally.  We  must  never  forget  that  we  are  in 
God's  House.  Of  course,  this  is  an  affair  that  really  should 
be  in  the  hands  of  the  Treasury.  But  I'm  afraid  that 
Canon  Render  can  hardly  be  expected  in  the  short  time 
that  he's  been  with  us  to  have  investigated  this  little  matter." 


148  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Every  one  looked  at  Render.  There  was  a  pleasant  sense 
of  drama  in  the  affair.  Brandon  was  gazing  at  the  portraits 
above  the  table  and  pretending  to  be  outside  the  whole  busi- 
ness; in  reality,  his  heart  beat  angrily.  His  word  should 
have  been  enough,  in  earlier  days  would  have  been.  Every- 
thing now  was  topsy-tun'y. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Render,  "I  have  gone  into 
the  matter.  I  saw  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  urgent  ques- 
tions on  the  Agenda.  Unimportant  though  it  may  sound,  I 
believe  that  the  School  cricket  will  be  entirely  held  up  this 
summer  if  they  don't  secure  their  roller.  They  intend,  I 
believe,  to  get  a  roller  by  private  subscription  if  we  refuse 
it  to  them,  and  that,  gentlemen,  would  be,  I  cannot  help 
feeling,  rather  ignominious  for  us.  I  have  been  into  the 
question  of  prices  and  have  examined  some  catalogues.  I 
find  that  the  expense  of  a  good  garden-roller  is  really  not 
a  very  great  one.  One  that  I  think  the  Treasury  could  sus- 
tain without  serious  inconvenience.  .  .  ." 

**You  think  then.  Canon,  that  we  should  allow  the  roller?" 
said  the  Dean. 

"I  certainly  do,"  said  Render. 

Brandon  felt  the  impression  that  had  been  created.  He 
knew  that  they  were  all  thinking  amongst  themselves:  "Well, 
here's  an  efficient  man  !" 

He  burst  out : 

"I'm  afraid  that  I  cannot  agree  with  Canon  Render.  If 
he  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  he  has  not  been,  as  yet,  long  enough 
in  the  place  to  know  hew  things  really  stand.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  against  Dennison,  but  he  has  obviously  put  his 
case  very  plausibly,  but  those  who  have  known  the  School 
and  its  methods  for  many  years  have  perhaps  a  prior  right 
of  judgment  ever  Canon  Render,  who's  known  it  for  so  short 
a  time." 

"Absurd.  Absurd,"  cried  Foster.  "It  isn't  a  case  of 
knowing  the  School.     It's  simply  a  question  of  whether  the 


ONE 


PKELUDE  149 


Chapter  can  afford  it.  Canon  Bonder,  who  is  Treasurer, 
says  that  it  can.     That  ought  to  be  enough  for  anybody." 

The  atmosphere  was  now  very  warm  indeed.  There  was 
every  likelihood  of  several  gentlemen  speaking  at  once. 
Witheram  looked  anxious,  Bentinck-Major  malicious,  Ryle 
nervous,  Foster  triumphant,  and  Brandon  furious.  Only 
Bonder  seemed  unconcerned. 

The  Dean,  distress  in  his  heart,  raised  his  hand. 

"As  there  seems  to  be  some  difference  of  opinion  in  this 
matter,"  he  said,  "I  think  we  had  better  vote  upon  it.  Those 
in  favour  of  the  roller  being  granted  to  the  School  please 
signify." 

Bonder,  Foster  and  Witheram  raised  their  hands. 

"And  those  against  ?"  said  the  Dean. 

Brandon,  Byle  and  Bentinck-Major  were  against. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  the  Dean,  smiling  anxiously,  "that  it 
•will  be  for  me  to  give  the  casting  vote."  He  paused  for  a 
moment.  Then,  looking  straight  across  the  table  at  the 
Clerk,  he  said: 

"I  think  I  must  decide  for  the  roller.  Canon  Bonder 
seems  to  me  to  have  proved  his  ease." 

Every  one,  except  possibly  Bonder,  was  aware  that  this 
was  the  first  occasion  for  many  years  that  any  motion  of 
Brandon's  had  been  defeated.  .  .  . 

Without  waiting  for  any  further  business  the  Archdeacon 
gathered  together  his  papers  and,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  strode  from  the  room. 


BOOK    II 
THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY 


CHAPTER  I 

FIVE  o'clock THE  GEEEN  CLOUD 

THE  cloud  seeoned  to  creep  like  smoke  from  the  funnel 
of  the  Cathedial  tower.  The  sun  was  setting  in  a  fierj 
wreatli  of  bubbling  haze,  shading  in  rosy  mist  the  moun- 
tains of  grey  stone.  The  little  cloud,  at  first  in  the  shadowy 
air  light  greon  and  shaped  like  a  ring,  twisted  spirally,  then, 
spreading,  washed  out  and  lay  like  a  pool  of  water  against 
the  smoking  sunset. 

Green  like  the  Black  Bishop's  ring.  .  .  .  Lying  there,  af- 
terwards, until  the  orange  had  faded  and  the  sky,  deserted 
by  the  sun,  was  milk-white.  The  mists  descended.  The 
Cathedral  chimes  struck  five.  February  night,  cold,  smoke- 
misted,  enwrapped  the  town. 


At  a  quarter  to  five  Evensong  was  over  and  Cobbett  was 
putting  out  the  candles  in  the  choir.  Two  figures  slowly 
passed  down  the  darkening  nave. 

Outside  the  west  door  they  paused,  gazing  at  the  splendour 
of  the  fiery  sky. 

"It's  cold,  but  there'll  be  stars,"  Bonder  said. 

Stars.  Cold.  Brandon  shivered.  Something  was  wrong 
with  him.  His  heart  had  clap-clapped  during  the  Anthem  as 
though  a  cart  with  heavy  wheels  had  rumbled  there.  Ho 
looked  suspiciously  at  Bonder.  He  did  not  like  the  man, 
confidently  standing  there  addressing  the  sky  as  though  he 
owned  it.    He  would  have  liked  the  sunset  for  himself. 

153 


154  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Well,  good-night,  Canon,"  brusquely.     He  moved  away. 

But  Render  followed  him. 

"One  moment,  Archdeacon.  .  .  .  Excuse  me.  ...  I  have 
been  wanting  an  opportunity.  .  .  ." 

Brandon  paused.  The  man  was  nervous.  Brandon  liked 
that 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

The  rosy  light  was  fading.  Strange  that  little  green  cloud 
rising  like  smoke  from  the  tower.  .  .  . 

"At  the  last  Chapter  we  were  on  opposite  sides.  I  want 
to  say  how  greatly  I've  regretted  that.  I  feel  that  we  don't 
know  one  another  as  we  should.  I  wonder  if  you  would  al- 
low me  .  .  ." 

The  light  was  fading — Bonder's  spectacles  shone,  his 
body  in  shadow. 

"...  to  see  something  more  of  you — to  have  a  real  talk 
with  you?" 

Brandon  smiled  grimly  to  himself  in  the  dusk.  This  fool ! 
He  was  afraid  then.  He  saw  himself  hatless  in  Bennett's 
shop;  outside,  the  jeering  crowd. 

"I'm  afraid,  Canon  Bonder,  that  we  shall  never  see  eye 
to  eye  here  about  many  things.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  say 
so,  you  have  perhaps  not  been  here  quite  long  enough  to 
understand  the  real  needs  of  this  diocese.  You  must  go  slowly 
here — more  slowly  than  perhaps  you  are  prepared  for.  We 
are  not  Modernists  here." 

The  spectacles,  alone  visible,  answered :  "Well,  let  us  dis- 
cuss it  then.  Let  us  talk  things  over.  Let  me  ask  you  at 
once.  Have  you  something  against  me,  something  that  I 
have  done  unwittingly?  I  have  fancied  lately  a  personal 
note.  ...  I  am  absurdly  sensitive,  but  if  there  is  anything 
that  I  have  done,  please  let  me  apologise  for  it.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me." 

Anj-thing  that  he  had  done?  The  Archdeacon  smiled 
grimly  to  himself  in  the  dusk. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERmG  GALLERY  155 

"I  really  don't  think,  Canon,  that  talking  things  over  will 
help  US.  There  is  really  nothing  to  discuss.  .  .  .  Good- 
night." 

The  green  cloud  was  gone.  Render,  invisihle  now,  re- 
mained in  the  shadow  of  the  great  door. 


n 

Beside  the  river,  above  the  mill,  a  woman's  body  was  black 
against  the  gold-crested  water.  She  leaned  over  the  little 
bridge,  her  body  strong,  confident  in  its  physical  strength, 
her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  meditative. 

ISTo  need  for  secrecy  to-night.  Her  father  was  in  Dry- 
mouth  for  two  days.  Quarter  to  five.  The  chimes  struck 
out  clear  across  the  town.  Hearing  them  she  looked  back 
and  saw  the  sky  a  flood  of  red  behind  the  Cathedral.  She 
longed  for  Falk  to-night,  a  new  longing.  He  was  better 
than  she  had  supposed,  far,  far  better.  A  good  boy,  tender 
and  warm-hearted.  To  be  trusted.  Her  friend.  At  first 
he  had  stood  to  her  only  for  a  means  of  freedom.  Freedom 
from  this  horrible  place,  from  this  horrible  man,  her  father, 
more  horrible  than  any  others  knew.  Her  mother  had 
known.  She  shivered,  seeing  that  body,  heavy-breasted,  dull 
white,  as,  stripped  to  the  waist,  he  bent  over  the  bed  to  strike. 
Her  mother's  cry,  a  little  moan.  .  .  .  She  shivered  again, 
staring  into  the  sunset  for  Falk.  .  .  . 

He  was  with  her.  They  leant  over  the  bridge  together, 
his  arm  around  her.    They  said  very  little. 

She  looked  back. 

"See  that  strange  cloud?  Green.  Ever  seen  a  green 
cloud  before?    Ah,  it's  peaceful  here." 

She  turned  and  looked  into  his  face.  As  the  dusk  came 
down  she  stroked  his  hair.  He  put  his  axm  round  her  and 
held  her  close  to  him. 


156  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 


III 


The  lamps  in  the  High  Street  suddenly  flaring  beat  out  the 
gky.  There  above  the  street  itself  the  fiery  sunset  had  not 
extended;  the  fair  watery  space  was  pale  egg^blue;  as  the 
chimes  so  near  at  hand  struck  a  quarter  to  five  the  pale  colour 
b^an  slowly  to  drain  away,  leaving  ashen  china  shades 
behind  it,  and  up  to  tliese  shades  the  orange  street-lights 
extended,  patronising,  flaunting. 

But  Joan,  pausing  for  a  moment  under  the  Arden  Gate 
before  she  turned  home,  saw  the  full  glory  of  the  sunset. 
She  heard,  contending  with  the  chimes,  the  last  roll  of  the 
organ  playing  the  worshippers  out  of  that  mountain  of  sacri- 
ficial stone. 

She  looked  up  and  saw  a  green  cloud,  faintly  green  like 
early  spring  leafage,  curl  from  the  tower  smoke-wise;  and 
there,  lifting  his  hat,  pausing  at  her  side,  was  Johnny  St 
Leath. 

She  would  have  hurried  on ;  she  was  not  happy.  Things 
were  not  right  at  home.  Something  wrong  with  father,  with 
mother,  with  Falk.  Something  wrong,  too,  with  herself. 
She  had  heard  in  the  town  the  talk  about  this  girl  who  was 
coming  to  the  Castle  for  the  Jubilee  time,  coming  to  marry 
Johnny.  Coming  to  marry  him  because  she  was  rich  and 
handsome.     Lovely.     Lady  St.  Leath  was  determined.  .  .  . 

So  she  would  hurry  on,  murmuring  "Good  evening."  But 
he  stopped  her.  His  face  was  flushed.  Andrew  heaved 
eagerly,  hungrily,  at  his  side. 

"Miss  Brandon.  Just  a  moment.  I  want  to  speak 
to  you.  Lovely  evening,  isn't  it  ?  .  .  .  You  cut  me  the  other 
day.    Yes,  you  did.     In  Orange  Street." 

'^Why?" 

She  tried  to  speak  coldly. 

"We're  friends.  You  know  we  are.  Only  in  this  beastly 
town  no  one  can  be  free.  .  .  .  I  only  want  to  tell  you  if  I 
go  away — suddenly — I'm  coming  back.    Mind  that.     You're 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  157 

not  to  believe  anything  they  say — anything  that  any  one  says. 
I'm  coming  back.  Remember  that.  We're  friends.  You 
must  trust  me.    Do  you  hear  ?" 

And  he  was  gone,  striding  off  towards  the  Cathedral,  An- 
drew panting  at  his  heels. 

The  light  was  gone  too — going,  going,  gone. 

She  stayed  for  a  moment.  As  she  reached  her  door  the 
wind  rose,  sifting  through  the  grass,  rising  to  her  chin. 


rv 

The  two  figures  met,  unconsciously,  without  spoken  ar- 
rangement, pushed  towards  one  another  by  destiny,  as  they 
had  been  meeting  now  continuously  during  the  last  weeks. 

Almost  always  at  this  hour;  almost  always  at  this  place. 
On  the  sandy  path  in  the  green  hollow  below  the  Cathedral, 
above  the  stream,  the  hollow  under  the  opposite  hill,  the  hill 
where  the  field  was,  the  field  where  they  had  the  Fair. 

Down  into  this  green  depth  the  sunset  could  not  strike, 
and  the  chimes,  telling  over  so  slowly  and  so  sweetly  the 
three-quarters,  filtered  down  like  a  memory,  a  reiteration  of 
an  old  promise,  a  melody  almost  forgotten.  But  above  her 
head  the  woman,  looking  up,  could  see  the  rose  change  to 
orange  and  could  watch  the  cloud,  like  a  pool  of  green 
water,  extend  and  rest,  lying  like  a  sheet  of  glass  behind 
which  the  orange  gleamed. 

They  met  always  thus,  she  coming  from  the  town  as  though 
turning  upwards  through  the  tangled  path  to  her  home  in 
the  Precincts,  he  sauntering  slowly,  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  as  though  he  had  been  wandering  there  to  think  out 
some  problem.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  he  did  not  come,  sometimes  she  could  not. 
They  never  stayed  more  than  ten  minutes  there  together.  No 
one  from  month  to  month  at  that  hour  crossed  that  desolate 
path. 

To-day  he  began  impetuously.     "If  you  hadn't  come  to- 


158  THE  CATHEDRAL 

night,  I  think  I  would  have  gone  to  find  you.  I  had  to  see 
you.  No,  I  had  nothing  to  say.  Only  to  see  you.  But  I  am 
so  lonely  in  that  house.  I  always  knew  I  was  lonely — never 
more  than  when  I  was  married — but  now.  ...  If  I  hadn't 
these  ten  minutes  most  days  I'd  die,  I  think.  .  .  ." 

They  didn't  touch  one  another,  but  stood  opposite  gazing, 
face  into  face. 

"Wliat  are  we  to  do  ?"  he  said.  "It  can't  be  wicked  just 
to  meet  like  this  and  to  talk  a  little." 

"I'd  like  you  to  know,"  she  answered,  "that  you  and  my 
son — you  are  all  I  have  in  the  world.  The  two  of  you.  And 
my  son  has  some  secret  from  me. 

"I  have  been  so  lonely  too.  But  I  don't  feel  lonely  any 
more.    Your  friendship  for  me  .  .  ." 

"Yee,  I  am  your  friend.  Think  of  me  like  that.  Your 
friend  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you — you  so  quiet  and 
gentle  and  unhappy.  I  realized  your  unhappiness  instantly. 
No  one  else  in  this  place  seemed  to  notice  it.  I  believe  God 
meant  us  to  be  friends,  meant  me  to  bring  you  happiness — 
a  little.  .  .  ." 

"Happiness?"  she  shivered.  "Isn't  it  cold  to-night?  Do 
you  see  that  strange  green  cloud  ?  Ah,  now  it  is  gone.  All 
the  light  is  going.  .  .  .  Do  you  believe  in  God  ?" 

He  came  closer  to  her.     His  hand  touched  her  arm. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  fiercely.  "And  He  means  me  to  care 
for  you."  His  hand,  trembling,  stroked  her  arm.  She  did 
not  move.  His  hand,  shaking,  touched  her  neck.  He  bent 
forward  and  kissed  her  neck,  her  mouth,  then  her  eyes. 

She  leant  her  head  wearily  for  an  instant  on  his  shoulder, 
then,  whispering  good-night,  she  turned  and  went  quietly 
up  the  path. 


CHAPTEK  II 


SOULS   ON   SUNDAY 


I  MUST  have  been  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age — it 
may  have  been  indeed  in  this  very  year  '97 — when  I 
first  read  Stevenson's  story  of  Treasure  Island.  It  is  the 
fashion,  I  believe,  now  with  the  Clever  Solemn  Ones  to 
despise  Stevenson  as  a  writer  of  romantic  Tushery. 

All  the  same,  if  it's  realism  they  want  I'm  still  waiting  to 
see  something  more  realistic  than  Pew  or  Long  John  Sil- 
ver.    Realism  may  depend  as  truly  on  a  blind  man's  tap  \ 
with  his  stick  upon  the  ground  as  on  any  number  of  adul-    \ 
teries. 

In  those  young  years,  thank  God,  I  knew  nothing  about 
realism  and  read  the  tale  for  what  it  was  worth.  And  it 
was  worth  three  hundred  bags  of  gold.  Now,  on  looking 
back,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  spirit  that  overtook  our  town 
just  at  this  time  was  very  like  the  spirit  that  seized  upon 
Dr.  Livesey,  young  Hawkins  and  the  rest  when  they  discov- 
ered the  dead  Buccaneer's  map.  This  is  no  forced  parallel. 
It  was  with  a  real  sense  of  adventure  that  the  Whispering 
began  about  the  Brandons  and  Ponder  and  the  Pybus  St. 
Anthony  living  and  the  rest  of  it.  Where  did  the  Whisper- 
ing start  ?     Who  can  ever  tell  ? 

Our  Polchester  Whispering  was  carried  on  and  fostered 
very  largely  by  our  servants.  As  in  every  village  and  town 
in  Glebeshire,  the  intermarrying  that  had  been  going  on 
for  generations  was  astonishing.  Every  servant-maid,  every 
errand-boy,  every  gardener  and  coachman  in  Polchester  was 
cousin,  brother  or  sister  to  every  other  servant-maid,  errand- 

159 


160  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

boy,  gardener  and  coachman.  They  made,  these  people,  a 
perfect  net  about  our  town. 

The  things  that  they  carried  from  house  to  house,  how- 
ever, were  never  the  actual  things ;  they  were  simply  the  ma- 
terial from  which  the  actual  things  were  made.  Nor  was 
the  construction  of  the  actual  tale  positively  malicious ;  it 
was  only  that  our  eyes  were  caught  by  the  drama  of  life 
and  we  could  not  help  but  exclaim  with  little  gasps  and  cries 
at  the  wonderful  excitement  of  the  history  that  we  saw. 
Our  treasurehunting  was  simply  for  the  fun  of  tlie  thrill 
of  the  chase,  not  at  all  that  we  wished  harm  to  a  soul 
in  the  world.  If,  on  occasion,  a  slight  hint  of  maliciousness 
did  find  its  place  with  us,  it  was  only  because  in  this  inse- 
cure world  it  is  delightful  to  reaffirm  our  own  security  as 
we  watch  our  neighbours  topple  over.  We  do  not  wish  them 
to  "topple,"  but  if  somebody  has  got  to  fall  we  would 
rather  it  were  not  ourselves. 

Brandon  had  been  for  so  long  so  remarkable  a  figure  in 
our  world  that  the  slightest  stir  of  the  colours  in  his  picture 
was  immediately  noticeable.  From  the  moment  of  Falk's  re- 
turn from  Oxford  it  was  expected  that  something  "would 
happen," 

It  often  occurs  that  a  situation  between  a  number  of  peo- 
ple is  vague  and  indefinite,  until  a  certain  moment,  often 
quite  undramatic  and  negative  in  itself,  arrives,  when  the 
situation  suddenly  fixes  itself  and  stands  forward,  set  full 
square  to  the  world,  as  a  definite  concrete  fact.  There  was 
a  certain  Sunday  in  the  April  of  this  year  that  became  for 
the  Archdeacon  and  a  number  of  other  people  such  a  defi- 
nite crisis — and  yet  it  might  quite  reasonably  have  been 
said  at  the  end  of  it  that  nothing  very  much  had  oc'cnrred. 

Everything  seemed  to  happen  in  Polchester  on  Sundays. 
For  one  thing  more  talking  was  done  on  Sundnv  than  on  all 
the  other  days  of  the  week  together.  Then  the  Cnthedral 
itself  came  into  its  full  glory  on  that  day.  Every  one  gath- 
ered there,  every  one  talked  to  every  one  else  before  parting, 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  161 

and  the  long  spaces  and  silences  and  pauses  of  the  day  allowed 
the  comments  and  the  questions  and  the  surmises  to  grow  and 
swell  and  distend  into  gigantic  images  before  night  took  every 
one  and  stretched  them  upon  their  backs  to  dream. 

What  the  Archdeacon  liked  was  an  "off"  Sunday,  when 
he  had  nothing  to  do  save  to  walk  majestically  into  his  place 
in  the  choir  stall,  to  read,  perhaps,  a  Lesson,  to  talk  gravely 
to  people  who  came  to  have  tea  with  him  after  the  Sunday 
Evensong,  to  reflect  lazily,  after  Sunday  supper,  his  long  legs 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  upon  the 
goodness  and  happiness  and  splendour  of  the  Cathedral  and 
the  world  and  his  own  place  in  it.  Such  a  Sunday  was  a 
perfect  thing — and  such  a  Sunday  April  18  ought  to  have 
been  .  .  .  alas!  it  was  not  so. 

It  began  very  early,  somewhere  about  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  a  horrible  incident.  The  rule  on  Sundays  was 
tibat  the  maid  knocked  at  half-past  six  on  the  door  and  gave 
the  Archdeacon  and  his  wife  their  tea.  The  Archdeacon 
lay  luxuriously  drinking  it  until  exactly  a  quarter  to  seven, 
then  he  sprang  out  of  bed,  had  his  cold  bath,  performed  his 
exercises,  and  shaved  in  his  little  dressing-room.  At  about 
a  quarter  past  seven,  nearly  dressed,  he  returned  into  the 
bedroom,  to  find  Mrs.  Brandon  also  nearly  dressed.  On  this 
particular  day  while  he  drank  his  tea  his  wife  appeared  to  be 
sleeping;  that  did  not  make  him  bound  out  of  bed  any  the 
less  noisily — after  twenty  years  of  married  life  you  do  not 
worry  about  such  things;  moreover  it  was  quite  time  that 
his  wife  bestirred  herself.  At  a  quarter  past  seven  he  came 
into  the  bedroom  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  humming  "On- 
ward, Christian  Soldiers."  It  was  a  fine  spring  morning, 
so  he  flung  up  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the  Precinct, 
fresh  and  dewy  in  the  morning  sun,  silent  save  for  the  in- 
quisitive reiteration  of  an  early  jackdaw.  Then  he  turned 
back,  and,  to  his  amazement,  saw  that  his  wife  was  lying, 
her  eyes  wide  open,  staring  in  front  of  her. 

"My  dear !"  he  cried.     "Aren't  you  well  ?" 


162  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"I'm  perfectly  well,"  she  answered  him,  her  eyes  maintain- 
ing their  fixed  stare.  The  tone  in  which  she  said  these  words 
was  quite  new — it  was  not  submissive,  it  was  not  defensive, 
it  was  indifferent. 

She  must  be  ill.    He  came  close  to  the  bed. 

"Do  you  realise  the  time?"  he  asked.  "Twenty  minutes 
past  seven.    I'm  sure  you  don't  want  to  keep  me  waiting." 

She  didn't  answer  him.  Certainly  she  must  be  ill.  There 
was  something  strange  about  her  eyes. 

"You  mu^t  be  ill,"  ho  repeated.  "You  look  ill.  Why 
didn't  you  say  so  ?    Have  you  got  a  headache  ?" 

"I'm  not  ill.  I  haven't  got  a  headache,  and  I'm  not  com- 
ing to  Early  Service." 

"You're  not  ill,  and  you're  not  coming  ..."  he  stam- 
mered in  his  amazement.  "You've  forgotten.  There  isn't 
late  Celebration." 

She  gave  him  no  answer,  but  turned  on  her  side,  closing 
her  eyes. 

He  came  right  up  to  the  bed,  frowning  down  upon  her. 

"Amy — what  does  this  mean?  You're  not  ill,  and  yet 
you're  not  coming  to  Celebration?  Why?  I  insist  upon 
an  answer." 

She  said  nothing. 

He  felt  that  anger,  of  which  he  had  tried  now  for  many 
years  to  beware,  flooding  his  throat. 

With  tremendous  self-control  he  said  quietly:  "What  is 
the  matter  with  you.  Amy?     You  must  tell  me  at  once." 

She  did  not  open  her  eyes  but  said  in  a  voice  so  low  tha* 
he  scarcely  caught  the  words: 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter.  I  am  not  ill,  and  I'm  not 
coming  to  Early  Service." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  don't  wish  to  go." 

For  a  moment  he  thought  that  he  was  going  to  bend  down 
and  lift  her  bodily  out  of  bed.  His  limbs  felt  as  though 
they  were  prepared  for  such  an  action. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  163 

But  to  his  own  surprised  amazement  he  did  nothing,  he 
said  nothing.  He  looked  at  the  bed,  at  the  hollow  where 
his  head  had  been,  at  her  head  with  her  black  hair  scattered 
on  the  pillow,  at  her  closed  eyes,  then  he  went  away  into 
his  dressing-room.  When  he  had  finished  dressing  he  came 
back  into  the  bedroom,  looked  across  at  her,  motionless,  her 
eyes  still  closed,  lying  on  her  side,  felt  the  silence  of  the 
room,  the  house,  the  Precincts  broken  only  by  the  impertinent 
jackdaw. 

He  went  downstairs. 

Throughout  the  Early  Celebration  he  remained  in  a  condi- 
tion of  amazed  bewilderment.  From  his  position  just  above 
the  altar-rails  he  could  see  very  clearly  the  Bishop's  Tomb; 
the  morning  sun  reflected  in  purple  colours  from  the  East 
window  played  upon  its  blue  stone.  It  caught  the  green 
ring  and  flashed  splashes  of  fire  from  its  heart.  His  mind 
went  back  to  that  day,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when,  with 
triumphant  happiness,  he  had  seemed  to  share  in  the  Bishop's 
spirit,  to  be  dust  of  his  dust,  and  bone  of  his  bone.  That 
had  been  the  very  day,  he  remembered,  of  Falk's  return  from 
Oxford.  Since  that  day  everything  had  gone  wrong  for  him 
— Ealk,  the  Elephant,  Ronder,  Foster,  the  Chapter.  And 
now  his  wife!  ]^ever  in  all  the  years  of  his  married  life 
had  she  spoken  to  him  as  she  had  done  that  morning.  She 
must  be  on  the  edge  of  a  serious  illness,  a  very  serious 
illness.  Strangely  a  new  concern  for  her,  a  concern  that  he 
had  never  felt  in  his  life  before,  arose  in  his  heart.  Poor 
Amy — and  how  tiresome  if  she  were  ill,  the  house  all  at 
sixes  and  sevens!  With  a  shock  he  realised  that  his  mind 
was  not  devotional.  He  swung  himself  back  to  the  service, 
looking  down  benevolently  upon  the  two  rows  of  people 
waiting  patiently  to  come  in  their  turn  to  the  altar  steps. 

At  breakfast,  however,  there  Mrs.  Brandon  was,  looking 
quite  her  usual  self,  in  the  Sunday  dress  of  grey  silk,  making 
the  tea,  quiet  as  she  always  was,  answering  questions  sub- 
missively, patiently,  "as  the  wife  of  an  Archdeacon  should." 


164  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

He  tried  to  show  her  by  his  manner  that  he  had  been  deeply 
shocked,  but,  unfortunately,  he  had  been  shocked,  annoyed, 
indignant  on  so  many  occasions  when  there  had  been  no 
real  need  for  it,  that  to-day,  when  there  was  the  occasion,  he 
felt  that  he  made  no  impression. 

The  bells  pealed  for  morning  service,  the  sun  shone;  as 
half -past  ten  approached,  little  groups  of  people  crossed 
the  Precincts  and  vanished  into  the  mouth  of  the  great  West 
door.  Now  were  Lawrence  and  Cobbett  in  their  true  glory 
— Lawrence  was  in  his  fine  purple  robe,  the  Sunday  silk 
one.  He  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  nave,  just  under  the 
choir-screen,  waiting  for  the  aristocracy,  for  whom  the  front 
seats  were  guarded  with  cords  which  only  he  might  imtie. 
How  deeply  pleased  he  was  when  some  unfortunate  stranger, 
ignorant  in  the  ways  of  the  Cathedral,  walked,  with  startling 
clatter,  up  the  whole  length  of  the  shining  nave  and  en- 
deavoured to  penetrate  one  of  these  sacred  defences! 
MajesticaUy — staff  in  hand,  he  came  forward,  shook  his 
snow-white  head,  looking  down  upon  the  intrusive  one  more 
in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  spoke  no  word,  but  motioned  the 
audacity  back  down  the  nave  again  to  the  place  where 
Cobbett  officiated.  Back,  clatter,  clatter,  blushing  and  con- 
fused, the  stranger  retreated,  watched,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  by 
a  thousand  sarcastic  and  cynical  eyes.  The  bells  slipped  from 
their  jangling  peal  into  a  solemn  single  note.  The  Mere 
People  were  in  their  places  at  the  back  of  the  nave,  the 
Great  Ones  leaving  their  entrance  until  the  very  last  moment. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  organ-loft;  very  softly  Brockett 
began  his  voluntary — clatter,  clatter,  clatter,  and  the  School 
arrived,  the  small  boys,  swallowed  by  their  Eton  collars,  first, 
filing  into  their  places  to  the  right  of  the  screen,  then  the 
middle  boys,  a  little  indifferent  and  careless,  then  tlie  Fifth 
and  Sixth  in  their  "stick-up"  collars,  haughty  and  indifferent 
indeed. 

Dimlv,  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen,  the  School  boys 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  165 

in  their  surplices  could  be  seen  settling  into  their  places 
between  the  choir  and  the  altar. 

A  rustling  of  skirts,  and  the  aristocracy  entered  in  ones 
and  twos  from  the  side  doors  that  opened  out  of  the  Cloisters. 
For  some  of  them — for  a  very  few — Lawrence  had  his  con- 
fidential smile.  For  Mrs.  Sampson,  for  instance — for  Mrs. 
Combermere,  for  Mrs.  Ryle  and  Mrs.  Brandon. 

A  very  special  one  for  Mrs.  Brandon  because  of  his  high 
opinion  of  her  husband.  She  was  nothing  very  much — "a 
mean  little  woman,"  he  thought  her — but  the  Archdeacon  had 
married  her.     That  was  enough. 

Joan  was  with  her,  conscious  that  every  one  must  be 
noticing  her — the  D'Arcy  girls  and  Cynthia  Ryle  and 
Gladys  Sampson,  they  would  all  be  looking  and  criticising. 
Rustle,  rustle,  rustle — here  was  an  event  indeed !  Lady  St. 
Leath  was  come,  and  with  her  in  attendance  Johnny  and 
Hetty.  Lawrence  hurried  forward,  disregarding  Mrs.  Bran- 
don, who  was  compelled  to  undo  her  cord  for  herself.  He 
led  Lady  St.  Leath  forward  with  a  ceremony,  a  dignity, 
that  was  marvellous  to  see.  She  moved  behind  him  as 
though  she  owned  the  Cathedral,  or  rather  could  have  owned 
it  had  she  thought  it  worth  her  while.  All  the  little  boys  in 
the  Upper  Third  and  Lower  Fourth  turned  their  necks 
in  their  Eton  collars  and  watched.  What  a  bonnet  she  was 
wearing!  All  the  colours*  of  the  rainbow,  odd,  indeed, 
perched  there  on  the  top  of  her  untidy  white  hair ! 

Every  one  settled  down;  the  voluntary  was  louder,  the 
single  note  of  the  bell  suddenly  more  urgent.  Ladies  looked 
about  them.  Ellen  Stiles  saw  Miss  Dobell — smile,  smile. 
Joan  saw  Cynthia  Ryle — smile,  smile.  Lawrence,  with  the 
expression  of  the  Angel  Gabriel  waiting  to  admit  into  heaven 
a  new  troop  of  repentant  sinners,  stood  expectant.  The  sun 
filtered  in  dusty  ladders  of  coloured  light  and  fell  in  squares 
upon  the  empty  spaces  of  the  nave. 

The  bell  suddenly  ceased,  a  long  melodious  and  melan- 
choly "Amen"  came  from  somewhere  far  away  in  the  purple 


1C6  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

shadow.  Every  one  moved;  a  noise  like  a  little  uncertain 
breeze  blew  through  the  Cathedral  as  the  congregation  rose; 
then  the  choir  tiled  through,  the  boys,  the  men,  the  Precentor, 
old  Canon  Morphew  and  older  Canon  Batholomew,  Canon 
Rogers,  his  face  bitter  and  discontented.  Canon  Foster, 
Bentinck-^Iajor,  last  of  all.  Archdeacon  Brandon.  They 
had  filed  into  their  places  in  the  choir,  they  were  kneeling, 
the  Precentor's  voice  rang  out.  .  .  . 

The  familiar  sound  of  Canon  Ryle's  voice  recalled  Mrs. 
Brandon  to  time  and  place.  She  was  kneeling,  her  gloved 
hands  pressed  close  to  her  face.  She  was  looking  into  thick 
dense  darkness,  a  darkness  penetrated  with  the  strong  scent 
of  Russia  leather  and  the  faint  musty  smell  that  always 
seemed  to  rise  from  the  Cathedral  hassocks  and  the  woodwork 
upon  which  she  leant.  Until  Ryle's  voice  roused  her  she  had 
been  swimming  in  space  and  eternity;  behind  her,  like 
a  little  boat  bobbing  distressfully  in  her  track,  was  the 
scene  of  that  early  morning  with  which  that  day  had  opened. 
She  saw  herself,  as  it  were,  the  body  of  some  quite  other 
woman,  lying  in  that  so  familiar  bedroom  and  saying  "No" 
— saying  it  again  and  again  and  again.    "No.    No.    No." 

Why  had  she  said  "No,"  and  was  it  not  in  reality  another 
woman  who  had  said  it,  and  why  had  he  been  so  quiet?  It 
was  not  his  way.  There  had  been  no  storm.  She  shivered 
a  little  behind  her  gloves. 

"Dearly  beloved  brethren,"  began  the  Precentor,  plead- 
ing, impersonal. 

Slowly  her  brain,  like  a  little  dark  fish  striking  up  from 
deep  green  waters,  rose  to  the  surface  of  her  consciousness. 
What  she  was  then  most  surely  aware  of  was  that  she  was 
on  the  very  edge  of  something;  it  was  a  quite  physical 
sensation,  as  though  she  had  been  walking  over  mist-soaked 
downs  and  had  suddenly  hesitated,  to  find  herself  looking 
down  along  the  precipitances  of  jagged  black  rock.  It  was 
"jagged  black  rock"  over  which  she  was  now  peering. 

Tlie  two  sides  of  the  choir  were  now  rivalling  one  another 


TWO  THE  WHISPEEING  GALLEKY  167 

over  the  psalms,  hurling  verses  at  one  another  with  breath- 
less speed,  as  though  they  said:  "Here's  the  ball.  Catch. 
Oh,  you  are  slow!" 

In  just  that  way  across  the  field  of  Amy  Brandon's  con- 
sciousness two  voices  were  shouting  at  one  another. 

One  cried:  "See  what  she's  in  for,  the  foolish  woman! 
She's  not  up  to  it.     It  will  finish  her." 

And  the  other  answered:  "Well,  she  is  in  for  it!  So 
it's  no  use  warning  her  any  longer.  She  wants  it.  She's 
going  to  have  it." 

And  the  first  repeated :  "It  never  pays !  It  never  pays ! 
It  never  pays !" 

And  the  second  replied:  "JSTo,  but  nothing  can  stop  her 
now.     ISTothing !" 

Could  nothing  stop  her  ?  Behind  the  intricacies  of  one  of 
Smart's  most  elaborate  "Te  Deums,"  with  clenched  hands 
and  little  shivers  of  apprehension,  she  fought  a  poor  little 
battle. 

"We  praise  Thee,  O  God.  We  acknowledge  Thee  to  be  the 
Lord.  .  .  ." 

"The  goodly  fellowship  of  the  prophets  praise  Thee.  .  .  ." 
A  boy's  voice  rose,  "Thou  did'st  not  abhor  the  Virgin's 
womb.  .  .  ." 

Let  her  step  back  now  while  there  was  yet  time.  She 
had  her  children.  She  had  Ealk.  Falk !  She  looked  around 
her,  almost  expecting  him  to  be  at  her  side,  although  she 
well  knew  that  he  had  long  ago  abandoned  the  Cathedral 
services.  Ah,  it  wasn't  fair !  If  only  he  loved  her,  if  only 
any  one  loved  her,  any  one  whom  she  herself  could  leva 
If  any  one  wanted  her  I 

Lawrence  was  waiting,  his  back  turned  to  the  nave.  Afi» 
the  last  words  of  the  "Te  Deum"  rose  into  a  shout  of 
triumphant  confidence  he  turned  and  solemnly,  his  staff 
raised,  advanced.  Archdeacon  Brandon  behind  him.  Now, 
as  always,  a  little  giggle  of  appreciation  ran  down  the  nave 
as  the  Archdeacon  marched  forward  to  the  Lectern.     The 


1G8  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

tourists  whispered  and  asked  one  another  who  that  fine- 
looking  man  was.  They  craned  their  necks  into  the  aisle. 
And  ho  did  look  fine,  his  head  up,  his  shoulders  back,  his 
grave  dignity  graciously  at  their  servica  At  their  service 
and  God's. 

The  sight  of  her  husband  inflamed  Mrs.  Brandon.  She 
stared  at  him  as  though  she  were  seeing  him  for  the  first 
time,  but  in  reality  she  was  not  seeing  him  as  he  was  now, 
but  rather  as  he  had  been  that  morning  bending  over  her 
bed  in  his  shirt  and  trousers.  That  movement  that  he  had 
made  as  though  he  would  lift  her  bodily  out  of  the  bed. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  His  fine  rich  voice  came  to  her 
from  a  long  way  off.  Let  him  boom  as  loudly  as  he  pleased, 
he  could  not  touch  her  any  more.  She  had  escaped,  and 
for  ever.  She  saw,  then,  ]\forris  as  she  had  seen  him  at 
that  tea-party  montlis  ago.  She  recovered  that  strange  sense 
that  she  had  had  (and  that  he  had  had  too,  as  she  knew) 
of  being  carried  out  right  away  from  one's  body  into  an 
atmosphere  of  fire  and  heat  and  sudden  cold.  They  had  no 
more  been  able  to  avoid  that  look  that  they  had  exchanged 
than  they  had  been  able  to  escape  being  bom.  Let  it  then 
stay  at  that.  She  wanted  nothing  more  than  that  Only 
that  look  must  be  exchanged  again.  She  was  hungry,  starv- 
ing for  it.  She  must  see  him  often,  continually.  She  must 
bo  able  to  look  at  him,  touch  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  hear  his 
voice.  She  must  be  able  to  do  things  for  him,  little  simple 
things  that  no  one  else  could  do.  She  wanted  no  more  than 
that.  Only  to  Ik?  near  to  him  and  to  see  that  he  was  cared 
for  .  .  .  looked  after.  Surely  that  was  not  wrong.  No  one 
could  say.  .  .  . 

Little  shivers  ran  contiiuially  about  her  body,  and  her 
hands,  clenched  tightly,  were  damp  within  her  gloves. 

The  Precentor  gave  out  the  words  of  the  Anthem,  "Little 
children,  love  one  another." 

Every  one  rose — save  Lady  St.  Leath,  who  settled  herself 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  169 

magnificently  in  her  seat  and  looked  about  her  as  though  she 
challenged  anybody  to  tell  her  that  she  was  wrong  to  do  so. 

Yes,  that  was  all  Amy  Brandon  wanted.  Who  could  say 
that  she  was  wrong  to  want  it?  The  little  battle  was  con- 
cluded. 

Old  Canon  Foster  was  preaching  to-day.  Always  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  Anthem  certain  ruffians,  visitors,  tourists, 
clattered  out.  No  sermon  for  them.  They  did  not  matter 
very  greatly  because  they  were  far  away  at  the  back  of  the 
nave,  and  nobody  need  look  at  them ;  but  on  Foster's  preach- 
ing days  certain  of  the  aristocracy  also  retired,  and  this 
was  disconcerting  because  their  seats  were  prominent  ones 
and  their  dresses  were  of  silk.  Often  Lady  St.  Leath  was 
one  of  these,  but  to-day  she  was  sunk  into  a  kind  of  stupor 
and  did  not  move.  Mrs.  Combermere,  Ellen  Stiles  and 
Mrs.  Sampson  were  the  guilty  ones. 

Rustle  of  their  dresses,  the  heavy  flop  of  the  side  Cloister 
door  as  it  closed  behind  them,  and  then  silence  once  more  and 
the  thin  angry  voice  of  Canon  Foster,  "Let  us  pray." 

Out  in  the  grey  Cloisters  it  was  charming.  The  mild 
April  sun  flooded  the  square  of  grass  that  lay  in  the  middle 
of  the  thick  rounded  pillars  like  a  floor  of  bright  green 
glass. 

The  ladies  stood  for  a  moment  looking  out  into  the  sunny 
silence.  The  Cathedral  was  hushed  behind  them;  Ellen 
Stiles  was  looking  very  gay  and  very  hideous  in  a  large  hat 
stifled  with  flowers,  set  sideways  on  her  head,  and  a  bright 
purple  silk  dress  pulled  in  tightly  at  the  waist,  rising  to 
high  puffed  shoulders.  Her  figure  was  not  suited  to  the 
fashion  of  the  day. 

Mrs.  Sampson  explained  that  she  was  suffering  from  one 
of  the  worst  of  her  nervous  headaches  and  that  she  could 
not  have  endured  the  service  another  moment.  Miss  Stiles 
was  all  eager  solicitude. 

"I  am  so  sorry.     I  know  how  you  are  when  you  get  one 


170  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

of  those  things.  Nothing  does  it  any  good,  does  it?  I 
know  you've  tried  everything,  and  it  simply  goes  on  for 
days  and  days,  getting  worse  and  worse.  And  the  really 
terrible  part  of  them  is  that,  with  you,  they  seem  to  bo 
constitutional.  No  doctors  can  do  anything — when  they're 
constitutional.    There  you  are  for  the  rest  of  your  days !" 

Mrs.  Sampson  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"I  must  say,  Dr.  Puddifoot  seems  to  be  very  little  use," 
she  moaned. 

"Oh!  Puddifoot!"  Miss  Stiles  was  contemptuous. 
"He's  past  his  work.  That's  one  comfort  about  this  place. 
If  any  one's  ill  he  dies.  No  false  hopes.  At  least,  we 
know  whore  we  are." 

They  walked  through  the  Martyr's  Passage  out  into  the 
full  sunlight  of  the  Precincts. 

"What  a  jolly  day!"  said  Mrs.  Combermere,  "I  shall  take 
my  dogs  for  a  walk.  By  the  way,  Ellen,"  she  turned  round 
to  her  friend,  "how  did  Miss  Burnett's  tea-party  go?  I 
haven't  seen  you  since." 

"Oh,  it  was  too  funny !"  Miss  Stiles  giggled.  "You  never 
saw  such  a  mixture,  and  I  don't  think  Miss  Burnett  knew 
who  any  one  was.  Not  that  she  had  much  time  to  think, 
poor  dear,  she  was  so  worried  with  the  tea.  Such  a  maid 
as  she  had  you  never  saw !" 

"A  mixture?"  asked  Mrs.  Combermere.  "Who  were 
they?" 

"Oh,  Canon  Ponder  and  Bentinck-Major  and  Mrs.  Bran- 
don and — Oh,  yes!  actually  Falk  Brandon!" 

"Falk  Brandon  there?" 

"Yes,  wasn't   it  the  strangest  thing.     I  shouldn't  have 

thought    he'd    have    had    time However,    you    told    me 

not  to,  so  I  won't " 

"Who  did  you  talk  to  ?" 

"I  talked  to  Miss  Burnett  most  of  the  time.  I  tried  to 
cheer  her  up.  No  one  else  paid  the  least  attention  to 
her." 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLEKY  171 

"She's  a  very  stupid  person,  it  seems  to  me,"  Mrs.  Samp- 
son murmured,     "But  of  course  I  know  her  very  slightly." 

"Stupid!"  Miss  Stiles  laughed.  "Why,  she  hasn't  an 
idea  in  her  head.  I  don't  believe  that  she  knows  it's  Jubilee 
Year.     Positively !" 

A  little  wind  blew  sportively  around  Miss  Stiles'  large 
hat.     They  all  moved  forward. 

"The  funny  thing  was "  Miss  Stiles  paused  and  looked 

apprehensively  at  Mrs.  Combermere.  "I  know  you  don't 
like  scandal,  but  of  course  this  isn't  scandal — there's  nothing 
in  it " 

"Come  on,  Ellen.     Out  with  it,"  said  Mrs.  Combermere. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Mr.  Morris.  I  caught  the 
oddest  look  between  them." 

"Look!  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Combermere 
sharply.  Mrs.  Sampson  stood  still,  her  mouth  a  little  open, 
forgetting  her  neuralgia. 

"Of  course  it  was  nothing.  All  the  same,  they  were 
standing  at  the  window  saying  something,  looking  at  one 
another,  well,  positively  as  though  they  had  known  one 
another  intimately  for  years.     I  assure  you " 

Mrs.  Combermere  turned  upon  her.  "Of  all  the  nasty 
minds  in  this  town,  Ellen,  you  have  the  nastiest.  I've  told 
you  so  before.  People  can't  even  look  at  one  another  now. 
Why,  you  might  as  well  say  that  I'd  been  gazing  at  your 
Ronder  when  he  came  to  tea  the  other  day." 

"Perhaps  I  shall,"  said  Miss  Stiles,  laughing.  "It  would 
be  a  delightful  story  to  spread.  Seriously,  why  not  make  a 
match  of  it?     You'd  just  suit  one  another." 

"Once  is  enough  for  me  in  a  life-time,"  said  Mrs.  Comber- 
mere grimly.  "N^ow,  Ellen,  come  along.  Ko  more  mischief. 
Leave  poor  little  Morris  alone." 

"Mrs.  Brandon  and  Mr.  Morris!"  repeated  Mrs.  Samp- 
son, her  eyes  wide  open.     "Well,  I  do  declare." 

The  ladies  separated,  and  the  Precincts  was  abandoned  for 
a  time  to  its  beautiful  Sunday  peace  and  calm. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    MAY-DA.Y    PROLOGUE 

MAY  is  the  finest  mouth  of  all  the  year  in  Glebeshira 
The  days  are  warm  but  not  too  hot;  the  sky  is  blue 
but  not  too  blue,  the  air  is  soft  but  with  a  touch  of  sharp- 
ness. The  valleys  are  pressed  down  and  overflowing  with 
flowers ;  the  cuckoo  cries  across  the  glassy  waters  of  blue 
harbours,  and  the  gorse  is  honey-scented  among  the  rocks. 

May-day  in  Polchester  this  year  was  warm  and  bright, 
with  a  persistent  cuckoo  somewhere  in  the  Dean's  garden, 
and  a  very  shrill-voiced  canary  in  Miss  Dobell's  open 
window.  The  citizens  of  Polchester  were  suddenly  aware 
that  summer  was  close  upon  them.  Doors  were  flung  open 
and  the  gardens  sinuously  watered,  summer  clothes  were 
dragged  from  their  long  confinement  and  anxiously  over- 
looked, Mr.  Martin,  the  stationer,  hung  a  row  of  his  coloured 
Polchester  views  along  a  string  across  his  window,  the 
dark,  covered  ways  of  the  market-place  quivered  and  shone 
with  pots  of  spring  flowers,  and  old  Simon's  water-cart  made 
its  first  trembling  and  shaking  appearance  down  the  High 
Street. 

All  this  was  well  enough  and  customary  enough,  but 
what  marked  this  spring  from  any  other  spring  tliat  had 
ever  been  was  that  it  was  Jubilee  Year.  It  was  on  this 
warm  ^lay-day  that  Polchester  people  realised  suddenly  that 
the  Jubilee  was  not  far  away.  The  event  had  not  quite 
the  excitement  and  novelty  that  the  Jubilee  of  1887  had 
had;  there  was,  perhaps,  in  Ix)ndon  and  the  larger  towns, 
something  of  a  sense  of  repetition.     But  Polchester  was  far 

172 


THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  173 

from  the  general  highway  and,  although  the  picture  of  the 
wonderful  old  lady,  now  nearly  eighty  years  of  age,  was 
strong  before  every  one's  vision,  there  was  a  deep  determina- 
tion to  make  this  year's  celebration  a  great  Polchester  affair, 
to  make  it  the  celebration  of  Polchester  men  and  Polchester 
history  and  Polchester  progress. 

The  programme  had  been  long  arranged — the  great  Service 
in  the  Cathedral,  the  Ball  in  the  Assembly  Rooms,  the  Flower 
Show  in  the  St.  Leath  Castle  grounds,  the  Torchlight  Pro- 
cession, the  Croquet  Tournament,  the  School-children's  Tea 
and  the  School  Cricket-match.  A  fine  programme,  and  the 
Jubilee  Committee,  with  the  Bishop,  the  Mayor,  and  the 
Countess  of  St.  Leath  for  its  presidents,  had  already  held 
several  meetings. 

Nevertheless,  Glebeshire  has  a  rather  languishing  climate. 
Polchester  has  been  called  by  its  critics  "a  lazy  town,"  and 
it  must  be  confessed  that  everything  in  connection  with  the 
Jubilee  had  been  jogging  along  very  sleepily  until  of  a  sudden 
this  warm  May-day  arrived,  and  every  one  sprang  into 
action.  The  Mayor  called  a  meeting  of  the  town  branch  of 
the  Committee,  and  the  Bishop  out  at  Carpledon  summoned 
his  ecclesiastics,  and  Joan  found  a  note  from  Gladys  Samp- 
son beckoning  her  to  the  Sampson  house  to  do  her  share  of 
the  glorious  work.  It  had  been  decided  by  the  Higher 
Powers  that  it  would  be  a  charming  thing  for  some  of  the 
younger  Polchester  ladies  to  have  in  charge  the  working 
of  two  of  the  flags  that  were  to  decorate  the  Assembly  Room 
walls  on  the  night  of  the  Ball.  Gladys  Sampson,  who,  unlike 
her  mother,  never  suffered  from  headaches,  and  was  a  strong, 
determined,  rather  masculine  girl,  soon  had  the  affair  in 
hand,  and  the  party  was  summoned. 

I  would  not  like  to  say  that  Polchester  had  a  more 
snobbish  spirit  than  other  Cathedral  towns,  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that,  thirty  years  ago,  the  lines  were  drawn  very 
clearly  indeed  between  the  "Cathedral"  and  the  "Others." 

"Cathedral"    included    not    only    the    daughters    of   the 


174  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Canons  and  what  Mr.  Martin,  in  his  little  town  guide-book, 
called  "General  Ecclesiastical  Phenomena,"  but  also  the  two 
daughters  of  Puddifoot's  sister,  Grace  and  Annie  Trudon; 
the  three  daughters  of  Roger  McKenzie,  the  towTi  lawyer; 
little  Betty  Callender,  the  only  child  of  old,  red-faced  Major 
Callender;  Mary  and  Amy  Forrester,  daughters  of  old 
Admiral  Forrester;  and,  of  course,  the  St.  Leath  girls. 

When  Joan  arrived,  then,  in  the  Deanery  dining-room 
there  was  a  fine  gathering.  Very  unsophisticated  they  would 
all  have  been  considered  by  the  present  generation.  Lady 
Rose  and  Lady  Mary,  who  were  both  of  them  nearer  forty 
than  thirty,  had  of  course  had  some  experience  of  London, 
and  had  been  even  to  Paris  and  Rome.  Of  the  "Others," 
at  this  time,  only  Betty  Callender,  who  had  been  bom 
in  India,  and  the  Forresters  had  been  farther,  in  all  their 
lives,  than  Dr^onouth.  Their  lives  were  bound,  and  happily 
bound,  by  the  Polchester  horizon.  They  lived  in  and  for  and 
by  the  local  excitements,  talks,  croquet,  bicycling  (under 
proper  guardianship),  Rafiel  or  Buquay  or  Clinton  in  the 
summer,  and  the  occasional  (very,  very  occasional)  per- 
formances of  amateur  theatricals  in  the  Assembly  Rooms. 

Moreover,  they  were  happy  and  contented  and  healthy. 
For  many  of  them  Jane  Eyre  was  still  a  forbidden  book 
and  a  railway  train  a  remarkable  adventure. 

Polchester  was  the  world  and  the  world  was  Polchester. 
They  were  at  least  a  century  nearer  to  Jane  Austen's  day 
than  they  were  to  George  the  Fifth's. 

Joan  saw,  with  relief,  so  soon  as  she  entered  the  room, 
that  the  St.  Leath  women  were  absent.  They  overawed 
her  and  were  so  much  older  than  the  others  there  that  they 
brought  constraint  with  them  and  embarrassment. 

Any  stranger,  coming  suddenly  into  the  room,  must  have 
felt  its  light  and  gaiety  and  happiness.  The  high  wide 
dining-room  windows  were  open  and  looked,  over  sloping 
lawiis,  down  to  the  Pol  and  up  again  to  the  woods  beyond. 
The  trees  were  faintly  purple  in  the  spring  sun,  daffodils 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  175 

were  nodding  on  the  lawn  and  little  gossamer  clouds  of  pale 
orange  floated  like  feathers  across  the  sky.  The  large  dining- 
room  table  was  cleared  for  action,  and  Gladys  Sampson, 
very  serious  and  important,  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  under  a  very  bad  oil-painting  of  her  father,  directing 
operations.  The  girls  were  dressed  for  the  most  part  in 
white  muslin  frocks,  high  in  the  shoulders  and  pulled  in  at 
the  waist  and  tight  round  the  neck — only  the  McKenzie 
girls,  who  rode  to  hounds  and  played  tennis  beautifully  and 
had,  all  three  of  them,  faces  of  glazed  red  brick,  were  clad 
in  the  heavy  Harris  tweeds  that  were  just  then  beginning 
to  be  so  fashionable. 

Joan,  who  only  a  month  or  two  ago  would  have  been 
devoured  with  shyness  at  penetrating  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Sampson  dining-room,  now  felt  no  shyness  whatever  but 
nodded  quite  casually  to  Gladys,  smiled  at  the  McKenzies, 
and  found  a  place  between  Cynthia  Ryle  and  Jane  D'Arcy. 

They  all  sat,  bathed  in  the  sunshine,  and  looked  at  Gladys 
Sampson.  She  cleared  her  throat  and  said  in  her  pounding 
heavy  voice — her  voice  was  created  for  Committees :  "Now 
all  of  you  know  what  we're  here  for.  We're  here  to  make 
two  banners  for  the  Assembly  Rooms  and  we've  got  to  do 
our  very  best.  We  haven't  got  a  great  deal  of  time  between 
now  and  June  the  Twentieth,  so  we  must  work,  and  I  propose 
that  we  come  here  every  Tuesday  and  Friday  afternoon, 
and  when  I  say  here  I  mean  somebody  or  other's  house, 
because  of  course  it  won't  be  always  here.  There's  cutting 
up  to  do  and  sewing  and  plenty  of  work  really  for  every- 
body, because  when  the  banners  are  done  there  are  the  flags 
for  the  school-children.  Now  if  any  one  has  any  suggestions 
to  make  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  them." 

There  was  at  first  no  reply  to  this  and  every  one  smiled 
and  looked  at  the  portrait  of  the  Dean.  Then  one  of  the 
McKenzie  girls  remarked  in  a  deep  bass  voice: 

"That's  all  right,   Gladys.     But   who's  going  to  decide 


176  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

who  does  what?  Very  decent  of  you  to  ask  us  but  we're 
not  much  in  the  sewing  line — never  have  been." 

"Oh,"  said  Gladys,  "I've  got  people's  names  down  for 
the  different  things  they're  to  do  and  any  one  whom  it 
doesn't  suit  has  only  got  to  speak  up." 

Soon  the  material  was  distributed  and  groups  were  formed 
round  the  room.  A  chatter  arose  like  the  murmur  of  bees. 
The  sun  as  it  sank  lower  behind  the  woods  turned  them 
to  dark  crimson  and  the  river  pale  grey.  The  sun  fell  now 
in  burning  patches  and  squares  across  the  room  and  the 
dim  yellow  blinds  were  pulled  half-way  across  the  windows. 
With  this  the  room  was  shaded  into  a  strong  coloured  twi- 
light and  the  white  frocks  shone  as  though  seen  through 
glass.  The  air  grew  cold  beyond  the  open  windows,  but  the 
room  was  warm  with  the  heat  that  the  walls  had  stolen  and 
stored  from  the  sun. 

Joan  sat  with  Jane  D'Arcy  and  Betty  Callender.  She 
was  very  happy  to  be  at  rest  there ;  she  felt  secure  and  safe. 
Because  in  truth  during  these  last  weeks  life  had  been  in- 
creasingly difficult — difficult  not  only  because  it  had  be- 
come, of  late,  so  new  and  so  strange,  but  also  because  she 
could  not  tell  what  was  happening.  Family  life  had  indeed 
become  of  late  a  mystery,  and  behind  the  mystery  tliere  was 
a  dim  sense  of  apprehension,  apprehension  that  she  had 
never  felt  in  all  her  days  before.  As  she  sank  into  the 
tranquillity  of  the  golden  afternoon  glow,  with  the  soft  white 
silk  passing  to  and  fro  in  her  hands,  she  tried  to  realise 
for  herself  what  had  been  occurring.  Her  father  was,  on  the 
whole,  simple  enough.  He  was  beginning  to  suffer  yet  again 
from  one  of  his  awful  obsessions.  Since  the  hour  of  her 
earliest  childhood  she  had  watched  these  obsessions  and 
dreaded  them. 

There  had  been  so  many,  big  ones  and  little  ones.  Now 
the  Government,  now  the  Dean,  now  the  Town  Council,  now 
the  Chapter,  now  the  Choir,  now  some  rude  letter,  now  some 
imoertinent  article  in  a  paper.     Like  wild  fierce  animals 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  177 

these  things  had  from  their  dark  thickets  leapt  out  upon 
him,  and  he  had  proceeded  to  wrestle  with  them  in  the  fuU 
presence  of  his  family.  Always,  at  last,  he  had  been  victori- 
ous over  them,  the  triumph  had  been  publicly  announced, 
"Te  Deums"  sung,  and  for  a  time  there  had  been  peace. 
It  was  some  while  since  the  last  obsession,  some  ridiculous 
action  about  drainage  on  the  part  of  the  Town  Council.  But 
the  new  one  threatened  to  make  up  in  full  for  the  length  of 
that  interval. 

Only  just  before  Falk's  unexpected  return  from  Oxford 
Joan  had  been  congratulating  herself  on  her  father's  happi- 
ness and  peace  of  mind.  She  might  have  known  the  omens 
of  that  dangerous  quiet.  On  the  very  day  of  Talk's  arrival 
Canon  Render  had  arrived  too. 

Canon  Render!  How  Joan  was  banning  to  detest  the 
very  sound  of  the  namel  She  had  hated  the  man  himself 
as  soon  as  she  had  set  eyes  upon  him.  She  had  scented,  in 
some  instinctive  way,  the  trouble  that  lay  behind  those  large 
round  glasses  and  that  broad  indulgent  smila  But  now! 
Kow  they  were  having  the  name  "Render"  with  their  break- 
fast, their  dinner,  and  their  tea.  Into  everything  apparently 
his  fat  fingers  were  inserted ;  her  father  saw  his  rounded 
shadow  behind  every  door,  his  rosy  cheeks  at  every  window. 

And  yet  it  was  very  difficult  to  discover  what  exactly  it 
was  that  he  had  done!  ISTow,  whatever  it  might  be  that 
went  wrong  in  the  Brandon  house,  in  the  Cathedral,  in  the 
town,  her  father  was  certain  that  Render  was  responsible, 
— but  proof.  Well,  there  wasn't  any.  And  it  was  precisely 
this  absence  of  proof  that  built  up  the  obsession. 

Everywhere  that  Render  went  he  spoke  enthusiastically 
about  the  Archdeacon.  These  compliments  came  back  to 
Joan  again  and  again.     "If  there's  one  man  in  this  town 

I  admire "     "What  would  this  town  be  without " 

"We're  lucky,  indeed,  to  have  the  Archdeacon "     And 

yet  was  there  not  behind  all  these  things  a  laugh,  a  jest,  a 
mocking  tone,    something  that   belonged   in   spirit  to   that 


178  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

horrible  day  when  the  elephant  had  trodden  upon  her 
father's  hat? 

She  loved  her  father,  and  she  loved  him  twice  as  dearly 
since  one  night  when  on  driving  up  to  the  Castle  he  had 
held  her  hand.  But  now  the  obsession  had  killed  the  possi- 
bility of  any  tenderness  between  them;  she  longed  to  be  able 
to  do  something  that  would  show  him  how  strongly  she  was 
his  partisan,  to  insult  Canon  Render  in  the  market-place, 
to  turn  her  back  when  he  spoke  to  her — and,  at  the  same 
time,  intermingled  with  this  hot  championship  was  irritation 
that  her  father  should  allow  himself  to  be  obsessed  by  this. 
He  who  was  so  far  greater  than  a  million  Ronders ! 

The  situation  in  the  Brandon  family  had  not  been  made 
any  easier  by  Falk's  strange  liking  for  the  man.  Joan  did 
not  pretend  that  she  understood  her  brother  or  had  ever  been 
in  any  way  close  to  him.  When  she  had  been  little  he  had 
seemed  to  be  so  infinitely  above  her  as  to  be  in  another  world, 
and  now  that  they  seemed  almost  of  an  age  he  was  strange 
to  her  like  some  one  of  foreign  blood.  She  knew  that  she 
did  not  count  in  his  scheme  of  life  at  all,  that  he  never 
thought  of  her  nor  wanted  her.  She  did  not  mind  that,  and 
even  now  she  would  have  been  tranquil  about  him  had  it  not 
been  for  her  mother's  anxiety.  She  could  not  but  see  how 
during  the  last  weeks  her  mother  had  watched  every  step  that 
Falk  took,  her  eyes  always  searching  his  face  as  though  he 
were  keeping  some  secret  from  her.  To  Joan,  who  never  be- 
lieved that  people  could  plot  and  plan  and  lead  double  lives, 
this  all  seemed  unnatural  and  exaggerated. 

But  she  knew  well  enough  that  her  mother  had  never  at- 
tempted to  give  her  any  of  her  confidence.  Everj'thing 
at  home,  in  short,  was  difficult  and  confused.  Nobody  was 
happy,  nobody  was  natural.  Even  her  own  private  history, 
if  she  looked  into  it  too  closely,  did  not  show  her  any  very 
optimistic  colours.  She  had  not  seen  Johnny  St.  Ixjath  now 
for  a  fortnight,  nor  heard  from  him,  and  those  precious 
words  under  the  Arden  Gate  one  evening  were  beginning 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  179 

already  to  appear  a  dim  unsubstantial  dream.  However,  if 
there  was  one  quality  that  Joan  Brandon  possessed  in  excess 
of  all  others,  it  was  a  simple  fidelity  to  the  cause  or  person 
in  front  of  her. 

Her  doubts  came  simply  from  the  wonder  as  to  whether 
she  had  not  concluded  too  much  from  his  words  and  built 
upon  them  too  fairy-like  a  castle. 

With  a  gesture  she  flung  all  her  wonders  and  troubles  out 
upon  the  gold-swept  lawn  and  trained  all  her  attention  to 
the  chatter  among  the  girls  around  her.  She  admired  Jane 
D'Arcy  very  much ;  she  was  so  "elegant."  Everything  that 
Jane  wore  became  her  slim  straight  body,  and  her  pale 
pointed  face  was  always  a  little  languid  in  expression,  as 
though  daily  life  were  an  exhausting  affair  and  not  intended 
for  superior  persons.  She  had  been  told,  from  a  very  early 
day,  that  her  voice  was  "low  and  musical,"  so  she  always 
spoke  in  whispers  which  gave  her  thoughts  an  importance 
that  they  might  not  otherwise  have  possessed.  Very  dif- 
ferent was  little  Betty  Callender,  round  and  rosy  like  an 
apple,  with  freckles  on  her  nose  and  bright  blue  eyes.  She 
laughed  a  great  deal  and  liked  to  agree  with  everything 
that  any  one  said. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Jane  in  her  fascinating  whisper, 
"there's  a  lot  of  nonsense  about  this  old  Jubilee." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Joan. 

"Yes.  Old  Victoria's  been  on  the  throne  long  enough. 
'Tis  time  we  had  somebody  else." 

Joan  was  very  much  shocked  by  this  and  said  so. 

"I  don't  think  we  ought  to  be  governed  by  old  people," 
said  Jane.  "Every  one  over  seventy  ought  to  be  buried 
whether  they  wish  it  or  no." 

Joan  laughed  aloud. 

"Of  course  they  wouldn't  wish  it,"  she  said. 

Laughter  came,  now  here,  now  there,  from  different  parts 
of  the  room.    Every  one  was  very  gay  from  the  triple  sense 


180  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

that  they  were  the  elect  of  Polcheeter,  that  thej  were  doing 
important  work,  and  that  summer  was  coming. 

Jane  D'Arcy  tossed  her  head. 

"Father  says  that  perhaps  he'll  be  taking  us  to  London 
for  it,"  she  whispered. 

"I  wouldn't  go  if  any  one  offered  me,"  said  Joan.  "It's 
Polchester  I  want  to  see  it  at,  not  London.  Of  course  I'd 
love  to  see  the  Queen,  but  it  would  probably  be  only  for  a 
moment,  and  all  the  rest  would  be  horrible  crowds  with  nobody 
knowing  you.    While  here  1    Oh !  it  will  be  lovely !" 

Jane  smiled.  "Poor  child.  Of  course  you  know  nothing 
about  London.  How  should  you?  Give  me  a  week  in 
London  and  you  can  have  your  old  Polchester  for  ever. 
What  ever  happens  in  Polchester  ?  Silly  old  croquet  parties 
and  a  dance  in  the  Assembly  Rooms.  And  never  any  one 
new." 

*^ell,  there  is  some  one  new,"  said  Betty  Callender,  "I 
saw  her  this  morning." 

"Her?  Who?"  asked  Jane,  with  the  scorn  of  one  who 
has  already  made  up  her  mind  to  despise. 

"I  was  with  mother  going  through  the  market  and  Lady 
St  Leath  came  by  in  an  open  carriage.  She  was  with  her. 
Mother  says  she's  a  Miss  Daubeney  from  London — and  oh ! 
she's  perfectly  lovely !  and  mother  says  she^s  to  marry  Lord 
St  Leath " 

"Oh  I  I  heard  she  was  coming,"  said  Jane,  still  scorn- 
fully. "How  silly  you  are,  Betty !  You  think  any  one  lovely 
if  she  comes  from  I^ondon." 

"No,  but  she  was,"  insisted  Betty,  "mother  said  so  too, 
and  she  had  a  blue  silk  parasol,  and  she  was  just  sweet 
Lord  St  I>eath  was  in  the  carriage  with  them." 

"Poor  Johnny !"  said  Jane.  "He  always  has  to  do  just 
what  that  horrible  old  mother  of  his  tells  him." 

Joan  had  listened  to  this  little  dialogue  with  what  bravery 
she  could.  Doom  thcu  had  been  pronounced  ?  Sentence  had 
fallen  ?     Miss  Daubeney  had  arrived.     She  could  hear  the 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  181 

old  Countess'  voice  again.  "Claire  Daubeney — Monteagle's 
daughter — such  a  nice  girl — Johnny's  friend " 

Johnny's  friend!  Of  course  she  was.  Nothing  could 
show  to  Joan  more  clearly  the  difference  between  Joan's 
world  and  the  St.  Leath  world  than  the  arrival  of  this  lovely 
stranger.  Although  Mme.  Sarah  Grand  and  others  were  at 
this  very  moment  forcing  that  strange  jfigure,  the  New 
Woman,  upon  a  reluctant  world,  Joan  belonged  most  dis- 
tinctly to  the  earlier  generation.  She  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  any  publicity,  of  any  thrusting  herself  forward,  of  any, 
even  momentary,  rebellion  against  her  position.  Of  course 
Johnny  belonged  to  this  beautiful  creature;  she  had  always 
known,  in  her  heart,  that  her  dream  was  an  impossible  one. 
Nevertheless  the  room,  the  sunlight,  the  white  dresses,  the 
long  shining  table,  the  coloured  silks  and  ribbons,  swam 
in  confusion  around  her.  She  was  suddenly  miserable.  Her 
hands  shook  and  her  upper  lip  trembled.  She  had  a  strange 
illogical  desire  to  go  out  and  find  Miss  Daubeney  and  snatch 
her  blue  parasol  from  her  startled  hands  and  stamp  upon  it. 

"Well,"  said  Jane,  "I  don't  envy  any  one  who  marries 
Johnny — to  be  shut  up  in  that  house  with  all  those  old 
women !" 

Betty  shook  her  head  very  solemnly  and  tried  to  look  older 
than  her  years. 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  on.  Gladys  came  across  and 
closed  the  windows. 

"I  think  that's  about  enough  to-day,"  she  said.  "Now 
we'll  have  tea." 

Joan's  great  desire  was  to  slip  away  and  go  home.  She 
put  her  work  on  the  table,  fetched  her  coat  from  the  other 
end  of  the  room. 

Gladys  stopped  her.  "Don't  go,  Joan.  You  must  have 
tea." 

"I  promised  mother "  she  said. 

The  door  opened.  She  turned  and  found  herself  close 
to  the  Dean  and  Canon  Render. 


182  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

The  Dean  came  forward,  nervously  rubbing  his  hands 
together  as  was  his  custom.  "Well,  children,"  he  said, 
blinking  at  them.  Ronder  stood,  smiling,  in  the  doorway. 
At  the  sight  of  him  Joan  was  filled  with  hatred — vehement, 
indignant  hatred;  she  had  never  hated  any  one  before, 
unless  possibly  it  was  Miss  St.  Clair,  the  French  mistress. 
Now,  from  what  source  she  did  not  know,  fear  and  passion 
flowed  into  her.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  amiable 
and  genial  than  the  figure  that  he  presented. 

As  always,  his  clothes  were  beautifully  neat  and  correct, 
his  linen  spotless  white,  his  black  boots  gleaming. 

He  beamed  upon  them  all,  and  Joan  felt,  behind  her, 
the  response  that  the  whole  room  made  to  him.  They  liked 
him;  she  knew  it.     He  was  becoming  popular. 

He  had  towards  them  all  precisely  the  right  attitude;  he 
was  not  amiable  and  childish  like  the  Dean,  nor  pompous 
like  Bentinck-Major,  nor  sycophantic  like  Ryle.  He  did  not 
advance  to  them  but  became,  as  it  were,  himself  one  of 
them,  understanding  exactly  the  way  that  they  wanted  him. 

And  Joan  hated  him ;  she  hated  his  red  face  and  his  neat- 
ness and  his  broad  chest  and  his  stout  legs — everything, 
everything!  She  also  feared  him.  She  had  never  before, 
although  for  long  now  she  had  been  conscious  of  his  power, 
been  so  deeply  aware  of  his  connection  with  herself.  It  was 
as  though  his  round  shadow  had,  on  this  lovely  afternoon, 
crept  forward  a  little  and  touched  with  its  dim  grey  for 
the  first  time  the  Brandon  housa 

"Canon  Ronder,"  Gladys  Sampson  cried,  "come  and  see 
what  we've  done." 

He  moved  forward  and  patted  little  Betty  Callender  on 
the  head  as  he  passed.  "Are  you  all  right,  my  dear,  and  your 
father?" 

It  appeared  that  Betty  was  delighted.  Suddenly  he  saw 
Joan. 

"Oh,  good  evening.  Miss  Brandon."  He  altered  his  tone 
for  her,  speaking  as  though  she  were  an  equal. 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLEKY  183 

Joan  looked  at  him;  colour  flamed  in  lier  cheeks.  She 
did  not  reply,  and  then  feeling  as  though  in  an  instant  she 
would  do  something  quite  disgraceful,  she  slipped  from  the 
room. 

Soon,  after  gently  smiling  at  the  parlourmaid,  who  was 
an  old  friend  of  hers  because  she  had  once  been  in  service  at 
the  Brandons,  she  found  herself  standing,  a  little  lost  and 
bewildered,  at  the  comer  of  Green  Lane  and  Orange  Street. 
Lost  and  bewildered  because  one  emotion  after  another 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  seized  upon  her  and  taken  her  cap- 
tive. Lost  and  bewildered  almost  as  though  she  had  been 
bewitched,  carried  off  through  the  shining  skies  by  her  captor 
and  then  dropped,  deserted,  left,  in  some  unknown  country. 

Green  Lane  in  the  evening  light  had  a  fairy  air.  The 
stumpy  trees  on  either  side  with  the  bright  new  green  of 
the  spring  seemed  to  be  concealing  lamps  within  their 
branches.  So  thick  a  glow  suffused  the  air  that  it  was  aa 
though  strangely  coloured  fruit,  purple  and  orange  and 
amethyst,  hung  glittering  against  the  pale  yellow  sky,  and 
the  road  running  up  the  hill  was  like  pale  wax. 

On  the  other  side  Orange  Street  tumbled  pell-mell  into 
the  roofs  of  the  town.  The  monument  of  the  fierce  Georgian 
citizen  near  which  Joan  was  standing  guarded  with  a 
benevolent  devotion  the  little  city  whose  lights,  stealing  now 
upon  the  air,  sprinkled  the  evening  sky  with  a  jewelled  haze. 
No  sound  broke  the  peace;  no  one  came  nor  went;  only  the 
trees  of  the  Lane  moved  and  stirred  very  faintly  as  though 
assuring  the  girl  of  their  friendly  company. 

Never  before  had  she  so  passionately  loved  her  town. 
It  seemed  to-night  when  she  was  disturbed  by  her  new  love, 
her  new  fear,  her  new  worldly  knowledge,  to  be  eager  to 
assure  her  that  it  was  with  her  in  all  her  troubles,  that  it 
understood  that  she  must  pass  into  new  experiences,  that  it 
knew,  none  better  indeed,  how  strange  and  terrifying  that 
first  realisation  of  real  life  could  be,  that  it  had  itself  suffered 
when  new  streets  had  been  thrust  upon  it  and  old  loved  houses 


184  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

pulled  down  and  the  river  choked  and  the  hills  despoiled,  but 
that  everj-thing  passes  and  love  remains  and  homeliness  and 
friends. 

Joan  felt  more  her  own  response  to  the  town  than  the 
town's  reassurance  to  her,  but  she  was  a  little  comforted 
and  she  felt  a  little  safer. 

She  argued  as  she  walked  home  through  the  Market  Place 
and  up  the  High  Street  and  under  the  Arden  Gate  into  the 
quiet  sheltered  Precincts,  why  should  she  think  that  Ronder 
mattered?  After  all  might  not  he  be  the  good  fat  clergy- 
man that  he  appeared  ?  It  was  more  perhaps  a  kind  of 
jealousy  because  of  her  father  that  she  felt  She  put  aside 
her  own  little  troubles  in  a  sudden  rush  of  tenderness  for 
her  family.  She  wanted  to  protect  them  all  and  make  them 
happy.  But  how  could  she  make  them  happy  if  they  would 
tell  her  nothing?  They  still  treated  her  as  a  child  but  she 
was  a  woman  now.  Her  love  for  Johnny.  She  had  admitted 
that  to  herself.  She  stopped  on  the  path  outside  the  decorous 
strait-laced  houses  and  put  her  cool  gloved  hand  up  to  her 
burning  cheek. 

She  had  known  for  a  long  time  that  she  loved  him,  but 
she  had  not  told  herself.  She  must  conquer  that,  stamp  upon 
it  It  was  foolish,  hopeless.  .  .  .  She  ran  up  the  steps  of 
their  house  as  though  something  pursued  her. 

She  let  herself  in  and  found  the  hall  dusky  and  obscure. 
The  lamp  had  not  yet  been  lit    She  heard  a  voice: 

"Who's  that?" 

She  looked  up  and  saw  her  mother,  a  little,  slender  figure, 
standing  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs  holding  in  her  hand  a 
lighted  candle. 

"It's  I,  mother,  Joan.  I've  just  come  from  Gladys 
Sampson's." 

"Oh  I  I  thought  it  would  be  Falk.  You  didn't  pass 
Falk  on  your  way  ?" 

"No,  mother  dear." 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  185 

She  went  across  to  the  little  cupboard  where  the  coats 
were  hung.  As  she  poked  her  head  into  the  little,  dark, 
musty  place,  she  could  feel  that  her  mother  was  still  standing 
there,  listening. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THB  GENIAL  HEAET 


ROXDER  was  never  happier  than  when  he  was  wishing 
well  to  all  mankind. 

He  could  neither  force  nor  falsify  this  emotion.  If  he 
did  not  feel  it  he  did  not  feel  it,  and  himself  was  the  loser. 
But  it  sometimes  occurred  that  the  weather  was  bright,  that 
his  digestion  was  functioning  admirably,  that  he  liked  his 
surroundings,  that  he  had  agreeable  work,  that  his  prospects 
were  happy — then  he  literally  beamed  upon  mankind  and 
in  his  fancy  showered  upon  the  poor  and  humble  largesse 
of  glittering  coin.  In  such  a  mood  he  loved  every  one,  would 
pat  children  on  the  back,  help  old  men  along  the  road,  listen 
to  the  long  whinings  of  the  reluctant  poor.  Utterly  genuine 
he  was ;  he  meant  every  word  that  he  spoke  and  every  smile 
that  he  bestowed. 

Now,  early  in  May  and  in  Polchester  ho  was  in  such  a 
mood.  Soon  after  his  arrival  ho  had  discovered  that  he 
liked  the  place  and  that  it  promised  to  suit  him  well,  but 
he  had  never  supposed  that  it  could  develop  into  such  per- 
fection. Success  already  was  his,  but  it  was  not  success  of 
80  swift  a  kind  that  plots  and  plans  were  not  needed.  They 
were  very  much  needed.  He  could  remember  no  time  in  his 
past  life  when  he  had  had  so  admirable  a  combination  of 
difficulties  to  overcoma  And  they  were  difficulties  of  the 
right  kind.  They  centred  around  a  figure  whom  he  could 
really  like  and  admire.  It  would  have  been  very  unpleasant 
had  he  hated  Brandon  or  despised  him.  Those  were  uncom- 
fortable emotions  in  which  he  indulged  as  seldom  as  possible. 

186 


THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  187 

What  he  liked,  above  everything,  was  a  fight,  when  he 
need  have  no  temptation  towards  anger  or  bitterness.  Who 
could  be  angry  with  poor  Brandon?  Nor  could  he  despise 
him.  In  his  simple  blind  confidence  and  self-esteem  there 
was  an  element  of  truth,  of  strength,  even  of  nobility. 

Far  from  despising  or  hating  Brandon,  he  liked  him  im- 
mensely— and  he  was  on  his  way  utterly  to  destroy  him. 

Then,  as  he  approached  nearer  the  centre  of  his  drama, 
he  noticed,  as  he  had  often  noticed  before,  how  strangely 
everything  played  into  his  hands.  Without  undue  presump- 
tion it  seemed  that  so  soon  as  he  determined  that  something 
ought  to  occur  and  began  to  work  in  a  certain  direction, 
God  also  decided  that  it  was  wise  and  pushed  everything  into 
its  right  place.  This  consciousness  of  Divine  partnership 
gave  Render  a  sense  that  his  opponents  were  the  merest 
pawns  in  a  game  whose  issue  was  already  decided. 

Poor  things,  they  were  helpless  indeed !  This  only  added 
to  his  kindly  feelings  towards  them,  his  sense  of  humour, 
too,  was  deeply  stirred  by  their  own  unawareness  of  their 
fate — and  he  always  liked  any  one  who  stirred  his  sense 
of  humour. 

Never  before  had  he  known  everything  to  play  so  immedi- 
ately into  his  hands  as  in  this  present  case.  Brandon,  for 
instance,  had  just  that  stupid  obstinacy  that  was  required,  the 
town  had  just  that  ignorance  of  the  outer  world  and  cleaving 
to  old  traditions. 

And  now,  how  strange  that  the  boy  Ealk  had  on  several 
occasions  stopped  to  speak  to  him  and  had  at  last  asked 
whether  he  might  come  and  see  him! 

How  lucky  that  Brandon  should  be  making  this  mistake 
about  the  Pybus  St.  Anthony  living ! 

Finally,  although  he  was  completely  frank  with  himself 
and  knew  that  he  was  working,  first  and  last,  for  his  own 
future  comfort,  it  did  seem  to  him  that  he  was  also  doing 
real  benefit  to  the  town.  The  times  were  changing.  Men 
of  Brandon's  type  were  anachronistic;  the  town  had  been 


188  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

under  Brandon's  domination  too  long.  New  life  was  coming 
— a  new  world — a  new  civilisation. 

Bonder,  although  no  one  believed  less  in  Utopias  than  he, 
did  believe  in  the  Zeitgeist — simply  for  comfort's  sake  if 
for  no  stronger  reason.  Well,  the  Zeitgeist  was  descending 
upon  Polchester,  and  Render  was  its  agent  Progress  ?  No, 
Render  did  not  believe  in  Progress.  But  in  the  House  of 
Life  there  are  many  rooms;  once  and  again  the  furniture 
is  changed. 

One  afternoon  early  in  May  he  was  suddenly  aware  that 
everything  was  moving  more  swiftly  upon  its  appointed 
course  than  he,  sharp  though  he  was,  had  been  aware.  Cross- 
ing the  Cathedral  Green  he  encountered  Dr.  Puddifoot. 
He  knew  that  the  Doctor  had  at  first  disliked  him  but  was 
quickly  coming  over  to  his  side  and  was  beginning  to  con- 
sider him  as  'Tbroad-minded  for  a  parson  and  knowing  a  lot 
more  about  life  than  you  would  suppose."  He  saw  precisely 
into  Puddifoot's  brain  and  watched  the  thoughts  dart  to 
and  fro  as  though  they  had  been  so  many  goldfish  in  a  glass 
bowl.  He  also  liked  Puddifoot  for  himself;  he  always  liked 
stout,  big,  red-faced  men ;  they  were  easier  to  deal  with  than 
the  thin  severe  ones.  He  knew  that  the  time  would  very 
shortly  arrive  when  Puddifoot  would  tell  him  one  of  his 
improper  stories.     That  would  sanctify  the  friendship. 

"Ha !  Canon !"  said  Puddifoot,  puffing  like  a  seal.  "Jolly 
day!" 

They  stood  and  talked,  then,  as  they  were  both  going  into 
the  town,  they  turned  and  walked  towards  the  Arden  Gate. 
Puddifoot  talked  about  his  health ;  like  many  doctors  he  was 
very  timid  about  himself  and  eager  to  reassure  himself  in 
public.  "How  are  you,  Canon  ?  But  I  needn't  ask — looking 
splendid.  I'm  all  right  myself — never  felt  better  really. 
Just  a  twinge  of  rheumatics  last  night,  but  it's  nothing. 
Must  expect  something  at  my  age,  you  know — getting  on  for 
seventy." 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  189 

"You  look  as  though  you'll  live  for  ever,"  said  Render, 
beaming  upon  him. 

"You  can't  always  tell  from  us  big  fellows.  There's 
Brandon  now,  for  instance — the  Archdeacon." 

"Surely  there  isn't  a  healthier  man  in  the  kingdom,"  said 
Ronder,  pushing  his  spectacles  back  into  the  bridge  of  his 
nose. 

"Think  so,  wouldn't  you?  But  you'd  be  wrong.  A 
sudden  shock,  and  that  man  would  be  nowhere.  Given  to 
fits  of  anger,  always  tried  his  system  too  hard,  never  learnt 
control.  Might  have  a  stroke  any  day  for  all  he  looks  so 
strong !" 

"Really,  really !    Dear  me !"  said  Ronder. 

"Course  these  are  medical  secrets  in  a  way.  Know  it 
won't  go  any  farther.  But  it's  curious,  isn't  it  ?  Appear- 
ances are  deceptive — damned  deceptive.  That's  what  they 
are.  Brandon's  brain's  never  been  his  strong  point  Might 
go  any  moment." 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Ronder.  "I'm  sorry  to  hear 
that" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean,"  said  Puddifoot,  puffing  and  blowing 
out  his  cheeks  like  a  cherub  in  a  picture  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  "that  he'll  die  to-morrow,  you  know — or  have  a 
stroke  either.  But  he  ain't  as  secure  as  he  looks.  And  he 
don't  take  care  of  himself  as  he  should." 

Outside  the  Library  Ronder  paused. 

"Going  in  here  for  a  book,  doctor.    See  you  later." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Puddifoot,  his  eyes  staring  up  and  down 
the  street,  as  though  they  would  burst  out  of  his  head. 
"Very  good — very  good.  See  you  later  then,"  and  so  went 
blowing  down  the  hill. 

Ronder  passed  under  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  Library 
and  found  his  way,  through  faith  rather  than  vision,  up  the 
stone  stairs  that  smelt  of  mildew  and  blotting-paper,  into 
the  hich  dingy  room.    He  had  had  a  sudden  desire  the  night 


190  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

before  to  read  an  old  story  by  Bage  that  he  had  not  seen  since 
he  was  a  boy — the  violent  and  melancholy  Hermsprong. 

It  had  come  to  him,  as  it  were,  in  his  dreams — a  vision  of 
himself  rocking  in  a  hammock  in  his  uncle's  garden  on  a 
wonderful  slimmer  afternoon,  eating  apples  and  reading 
Hermsprong,  the  book  discovered,  he  knew  not  by  what 
chance,  in  the  dusty  depths  of  his  uncle's  library.  He  would 
like  to  read  it  again.  Hermsprong  I  the  very  scent  of  the 
skin  of  the  apple,  the  blue-flecked  tapestry  of  light  between 
the  high  boughs  came  back  to  him.  He  was  a  boy  again. 
.  .  .  He  was  brought  up  sharply  by  meeting  the  little  red- 
rimmed  eyes  of  Miss  Milton.  Red-rimmed  to-day,  surely, 
with  recent  weeping.  She  sat  himiped  up  on  her  chair, 
glaring  out  into  the  room. 

"It's  all  right.  Miss  Milton,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her.  "It's 
an  old  book  I  want.  I  won't  bother  you.  I'll  look  for 
myself." 

He  passed  into  the  further  dim  secrecies  of  the  Library, 
whither  so  few  penetrated.  Here  was  an  old  ladder,  and, 
mounted  upon  it,  he  confronted  the  vanished  masterpieces 
of  Holcroft  and  Radcliffe,  Lewis  and  Jane  Porter,  Clara 
Reeve  and  MacKenzie,  old  calf-bound  ghosts  who  threw  up 
little  clouds  of  sighing  dust  as  he  touched  them  with  his 
fingers.  He  was  happily  preoccupied  with  his  search,  bal- 
ancing his  stout  body  precariously  on  the  trembling  ladder, 
when  he  fancied  that  he  heard  a  sigh. 

He  stopped  and  listened ;  this  time  there  could  be  no  mia- 
taka  It  was  a  sigh  of  prodigious  intent  and  meaning,  and 
it  came  from  Miss  Milton.  Impatiently  he  turned  back  to 
his  books;  he  would  find  his  Bage  as  quickly  as  possible  and 
go.  He  was  not  at  all  in  the  mood  for  lamentations  from 
Miss  ^Milton.  Ah!  there  was  Barham  Downs.  Hermsprong 
could  not  be  far  away.  Then  suddenly  there  came  to  him 
quite  unmistakably  a  sob,  then  another,  then  two  more, 
finally  something  that  horribly  resembled  hysterics.  He 
came  down  from  his  ladder  and  crossed  the  room. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  191 

"My  dear  Miss  Milton!"  he  exclaimed.  "Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  ?" 

She  presented  a  strange  and  nnpoetic  appearance,  huddled 
up  in  her  wooden  arm-chair,  one  fat  leg  crooked  under  her, 
her  head  sinking  into  her  ample  bosom,  her  whole  figure 
shaking  with  convulsive  grief,  the  chair  creaking  sym- 
pathetically with  her. 

Ronder,  seeing  that  she  was  in  real  distress,  hurried  up 
to  her. 

"My  dear  Miss  Milton,  what  is  it?" 

Eor  a  while  she  could  not  speak;  then  raised  a  face  of 
mottled  purple  and  white,  and,  dabbing  her  cheeks  with  a 
handkerchief  not  of  the  cleanest,  choked  out  between  her 
sobs: 

"My  last  week — Saturday — Saturday  I  go — disgrace — 
ugh,  ugh — dismissed — Archdeacon." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  said  Ronder,  "who  goes  ?  Who's 
disgraced  ?" 

"I  go !"  cried  Miss  Milton,  suddenly  uncurling  her  body 
and  her  sobs  checked  by  her  anger.  "I  shouldn't  have  given 
way  like  this,  and  before  you.  Canon  Ronder.  But  I'm 
ruined — ruined ! — and  for  doing  my  duty !" 

Her  change  from  the  sobbing,  broken  woman  to  the  im- 
passioned avenger  of  justice  was  so  immediate  that  Ronder 
was  confused.  "I  still  don't  understand.  Miss  Milton,"  he 
said.    "Do  you  say  you  are  dismissed,  and,  if  so,  by  whom  ?" 

"I  am  dismissed!  I  am  dismissed!"  cried  Miss  Milton. 
"I  leave  here  on  Saturday.  I  have  been  librarian  to  this 
Library,  Canon  Ronder,  for  more  than  twenty  years.  Yes, 
twenty  years.  And  now  I'm  dismissed  like  a  dog  with  a 
month's  notice." 

She  had  collected  her  tears  and,  with  a  marvellous  rapidity, 
packed  them  away.  Her  eyes,  although  red,  were  dry  and 
glittering;  her  cheeks  were  of  a  pasty  white  marked  with 
small  red  spots  of  indignation.    Ronder,  looking  at  her  and 


192  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


her  dirty  hands,  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a  woman 
whom  he  disliked  more. 

"But,  Miss  Milton,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  forgive  me,  I  still 
don't  understand.  Under  whom  do  you  hold  this  appoint- 
ment ?  Who  have  the  right  to  dismiss  you  ?  and,  whoever  it 
was,  they  must  have  given  some  reason." 

Miss  Milton  was  now  the  practical  woman,  speaking 
calmly,  although  her  bosom  still  heaved  and  her  fingers 
plucked  confusedly  with  papers  on  the  table  in  front  of  her. 
She  spoke  quietly,  but  behind  her  words  there  were  so 
vehement  a  hatred,  bitterness  and  malice  that  Render  ob- 
served her  with  a  new  interest. 

"There  is  a  Library  Committee,  Canon  Render,"  she  said. 
"Lady  St.  Leath  is  the  president.  It  has  in  its  hands  the 
appointment  of  the  librarian.  It  appointed  me  more  than 
twenty  years  ago.  It  has  now  dismissed  me  with  a  month's 
notice  for  what  it  calls — what  it  calls.  Canon  Render — 
*abuse  and  neglect  of  my  duties.'  Abuse!  N^lectl  Mel 
about  whom  there  has  never  been  a  word  of  complaint  until 
—until " 

Here  again  Miss  Milton's  passions  seemed  to  threaten  to 
overwhelm  her.  She  gathered  herself  together  with  a  great 
eflFort. 

"I  know  my  enemy,  Canon  Render.  Make  no  mistake 
about  that.  I  know  my  enemy.  Although,  what  /  have 
ever  done  to  him  I  cannot  imagine.  A  more  inoffensive 
person " 

"Yes. — But,"  said  Canon  Render  gently,  "tell  me,  if  you 
can,  exactly  with  what  they  charge  you.  Perhaps  I  can  help 
you.     Is  it  Lady  St.  Leath  who " 

"No,  it  is  not  Lady  St.  Leath,"  broke  in  Miss  Milton 
vehemently.  "I  owe  Lady  St.  Leath  much  in  the  past.  If 
she  has  been  a  little  imperious  at  times,  that  after  all  is  her 
right  Lady  St.  Leath  is  a  perfect  lady.  What  occurred 
was  simply  this :  Some  months  ago  I  was  keeping  a  book  for 
Lady  St.  Leath  that  she  especially  wished  to  read.     Miss 


TWO  THE  WHISPERmG  GALLERY  193 

Brandon,  the  daugliter  of  the  Archdeacon,  came  in  and  tried 
to  take  the  book  from  me,  saying  that  her  mother  wished  to 
read  it.  I  explained  to  her  that  it  was  being  kept  for  Lady 
St.  Leath ;  nevertheless,  she  persisted  and  complained  to  Lord 
St.  Leath,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  Library  at  the  time ;  he, 
being  a  perfect  gentleman,  could  of  course  do  nothing  but  say 
that  she  was  to  have  the  book. 

"She  went  home  and  complained,  and  it  was  the  Arch- 
deacon who  brought  up  the  affair  at  a  Committee  meeting 
and  insisted  on  my  dismissal.  Yes,  Canon  Render,  I  know 
my  enemy  and  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Canon  Render  benevolently,  "I'm  more 
than  sorry.  Certainly  it  sounds  a  little  hasty,  although  the 
Archdeacon  is  the  most  honourable  of  men." 

"Honourable!  Honourable!"  Miss  Milton  rose  in  hei 
chair.  "Honourable!  He's  so  swollen  with  pride  that  he 
doesn't  know  what  he  is.  Oh !  I  don't  measure  my  words^ 
Canon  Render,  nor  do  I  see  any  reason  why  I  should. 

"He  has  ruined  my  life.  What  have  I  now  at  my  age  to 
go  to  ?  A  little  secretarial  work,  and  less  and  less  of  that. 
But  it's  not  that  of  which  I  complain.  I  am  hurt  in  the  very 
depths  of  my  being.  Canon  Ronder.  In  my  pride  and  my 
honour.     Stains,  wounds  that  I  can  never  forget!" 

It  was  so  exactly  as  though  Miss  Milton  had  just  been 
reading  Hermsprong  and  was  quoting  from  it  that  Ronder 
looked  about  him,  almost  expecting  to  see  the  dusty  volume. 

"Well,  Miss  Milton,  perhaps  I  can  put  a  little  work  in 
your  way." 

"You're  very  kind,  sir,"  she  said.  "There's  more  than 
I  in  this  town,  sir,  who're  glad  that  you've  come  among  us, 
and  hope  that  perhaps  your  presence  may  lead  to  a  change 
some  day  amongst  those  in  high  authority." 

"Where  are  you  living.  Miss  Milton  ?"  he  asked. 

"Three  St.  James'  Lane,"  she  answered.  "Just  behind  the 
Market  and  St.  James'  Church.  Opposite  the  Rectory.  Two 
little  rooms,  my  windows  looking  on  to  Mr.  Morris'." 


194  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Very  well,  I'll  remember." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I'm  sure.  I'm  afraid  I've  forgotten 
myself  this  morning,  but  there's  nothing  like  a  sense  of 
injustice  for  making  you  lose  your  self-control.  I  don't  care 
who  hears  me.    I  shall  not  forgive  the  Archdeacon." 

"Come,  come.  Miss  Milton,"  said  Ronder.  "We  must  all 
forgive  and  forget." 

Her  eyes  narrowed  until  they  almost  disappeared. 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  unfair,  Canon  Ronder,"  she  said. 
"But  I've  worked  for  more  than  twenty  years  like  an  honour- 
able woman,  and  to  be  turned  out. — Not  that  I  bear  Mrs. 
Brandon  any  grudge,  coming  down  to  see  Mr.  Morris  so 
often  as  she  does.  I  daresay  she  doesn't  have  too  happy  a 
time  if  all  were  known." 

"Now,  now,"  said  Ronder.  "This  won't  do.  Miss  Milton. 
You  won't  make  your  case  better  by  talking  scandal,  you 
know.  I  have  your  address.  If  I  can  help  you  I  will.  Good 
afternoon." 

Forgetting  Hermsprong,  having  now  more  important 
things  to  consider,  he  found  his  way  down  the  steps  and  out 
into  the  air. 

On  every  side  now  it  seemed  that  the  Archdeacon  was 
making  some  blunder.  Little  unimportant  blunders  perhaps, 
but  nevertheless  cumulative  in  their  effect!  The  balance 
had  shifted.  The  Powers  of  the  Air,  bored  perhaps  with  the 
too-extended  spectacle  of  an  Archdeacon  successful  and 
triumphant,  had  made  a  sign.  .  .  . 

Ronder,  as  he  stood  in  the  spring  sunlight,  glancing  up 
and  down  the  High  .Street,  so  full  of  colour  and  movement, 
had  an  impulse  as  though  it  were  almost  a  duty  to  go  and 
warn  tlie  Archdeacon.  "Ix)ok  out!  Look  out!  There's  a 
storm  coming!"  Warn  the  Archdeacon!  He  smiled.  Ho 
could  imagine  to  himself  the  scene  and  the  reception  his 
advice  would  have.  Nevertheless,  how  sad  that  undoubtedly 
you  cannot  make  an  omelette  without  first  breaking  the  eggs  * 
And  this  omelette  positively  musl  be  made! 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  195 

He  had  intended  to  do  a  little  shopping,  an  occupation  in 
which  he  delighted  because  of  the  personal  victories  to  be 
won,  but  suddenly  now,  moved  by  what  impulse  he  could  not 
tell,  he  turned  back  towards  the  Cathedral.  He  crossed  the 
Green,  and  almost  before  he  knew  it  he  had  pushed  back 
the  heavy  West  door  and  was  in  the  dark,  dimly  coloured 
shadow.  The  air  was  chill.  The  nave  was  scattered  with 
lozenges  of  purple  and  green  light.  He  moved  up  the  side 
aisle,  thinking  that  now  he  was  here  he  would  exchange  a 
word  or  two  with  old  Lawrence.  ISTo  harm  would  be  done  by 
a  little  casual  amiability  in  that  direction. 

Before  he  realised,  he  was  close  to  the  Black  Bishop's 
Tomb.  The  dark  grim  face  seemed  to-day  to  wear  a 
triumphant  smile  beneath  the  black  beard.  A  shaft  of  sun- 
light played  upon  the  marble  like  a  searchlight  upon  water; 
the  gold  of  the  ironwork  and  the  green  ring  and  the  tracery 
on  the  scrolled  borders  jumped  under  the  sunlight  like  living 
things. 

Ronder,  moved  as  always  by  beauty,  smiled  as  though 
in  answer  to  the  dead  Bishop. 

"Why!  you're  the  most  alive  thing  in  this  Cathedral," 
he  thought  to  himself. 

"Pretty  good  bit  of  work,  isn't  it  ?"  he  heard  at  his  elbow. 
He  turned  and  saw  Davray,  the  painter.  The  man  had 
been  pointed  out  to  him  in  the  street;  he  knew  his  reputa- 
tion. He  was  inclined  to  be  interested  in  the  man,  in  any 
one  who  had  a  wider,  broader  view  of  life  than  the  citizens 
of  the  town.  Davray  had  not  been  drinking  for  several 
weeks ;  and  always  towards  the  end  of  one  of  his  sober  bouts 
he  was  gentle,  melancholy,  the  true  artist  in  him  rising  for 
one  last  view  of  the  beauty  that  there  was  in  the  world  before 
the  inevitable  submerging. 

He  had,  on  this  occasion,  been  sober  for  a  longer  period 
than  usual;  he  felt  weak  and  faint,  as  though  he  had  been 
without  food,  and  his  favourite  vice,  that  had  been  approach- 
ing closer  and  closer  to  him  during  these  last  days,  now  leered 


196  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

at  him,  leaning  towards  him  from  the  other  side  of  the 
gilded  scrolls  of  the  tomb. 

"Yes,  it's  a  very  fine  thing."  He  cleared  his  throat. 
"You're  Canon  Ronder,  are  vou  not  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"My  name's  Davray.  You  probably  heard  of  me  as  a 
dnmkard  who  hangs  about  the  town  doing  no  good.  I'm 
quite  sure  you  don't  want  to  speak  to  me  or  know  me,  but 
in  here,  where  it's  so  quiet  and  so  beautiful,  one  may  know 
people  whom  it  wouldn't  be  nice  to  know  outside." 

Ronder  looked  at  him.  The  man's  face,  worn  now  and 
pinched  and  sharp,  must  once  have  had  its  fineness. 

"You  do  yourself  an  injustice,  Mr.  Davray,"  Ronder 
said.    "I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  know  you." 

"T\'^ell,  of  course,  you  parsons  have  got  to  know  every- 
body, haven't  you  ?  And  the  sinners  especially.  That's 
your  job.  But  I'm  not  a  sinner  to-day.  I  haven't  drunk 
anything  for  weeks,  although  don't  congratulate  me,  because 
I'm  certainly  not  going  to  hold  out  much  longer.  There's 
no  hope  of  redeeming  me,  Canon  Ronder,  even  if  you  have 
time  for  the  job." 

Ronder  smiled. 

"I'm  not  going  to  preach  to  you,"  he  said,  "you  needn't 
be  afraid." 

"Well,  let's  forget  all  that.  This  Cathedral  is  the  very 
place,  if  you  clergymen  had  any  sense  of  proportion,  where 
you  should  be  ashamed  to  preach.     It  laughs  at  you." 

"At  any  rate  the  Bishop  does,"  said  Ronder,  looking  down 
at  the  tomb. 

"No,  but  all  of  it,"  said  Davray.  Instinctively  they  both 
looked  up.  High  above  them,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  great 
Cathedral  tower,  a  mist,  reflected  above  the  windows  until 
it  was  coloured  a  very  faint  rose,  trembled  like  a  sea  about 
the  black  rafters  and  rounded  pillars.  Even  as  they  looked 
some  bird  flew  twittering  from  corner  to  comer. 

"When  I'm  worked  up,"  said  Davray,  "which  I'm  not 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  197 

to-day,  I  just  long  to  clear  all  you  officials  out  of  it.  I 
laugh  sometimes  to  think  how  important  you  think  your- 
selves and  how  unimportant  you  really  are.  The  Cathedral 
laughs  too,  and  once  and  again  stretches  out  a  great  lazy 
finger  and  just  flicks  you  away  as  it  would  a  spider's  web. 
I  hope  you  don't  think  me  impertinent." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Render ;  "some  of  us  even  may  feel 
just  as  you  do  about  it." 

"Brandon  doesn't."  Davray  moved  away.  "I  sometimes 
think  that  when  I'm  properly  drunk  one  day  I'll  murder  that 
man.  His  self-sufficiency  and  conceit  are  an  insult  to  the 
Cathedral.    But  the  Cathedral  knows.    It  bides  its  time." 

Render  looked  gravely  at  the  melancholy,  ineffective  figure 
with  the  pale  pointed  beard,  and  the  weak  hands.  "You 
speak  very  confidently,  Mr.  Davray,"  he  said.  "As  with  aU 
of  us,  you  judge  others  by  yourself.  When  you  know  what 
the  Cathedral's  attitude  to  yourself  is,  you'll  be  able  to  see 
more  clearly." 

"To  myself!"  Davray  answered  excitedly.  "It  has  none! 
To  myself  ?  Why,  I'm  nobody,  nothing.  It  doesn't  have  to 
begin  to  consider  me.  I'm  less  than  the  dung  the  birds  drop 
from  the  height  of  the  tower.  But  I'm  humble  before  it. 
I  would  let  its  meanest  stone  crush  the  life  out  of  my  body, 
and  be  glad  enough.  At  least  I  know  its  power,  its  beauty. 
And  I  adore  it!     I  adore  it!" 

He  looked  up  as  he  spoke;  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  eagerly 
searching  for  some  expected  face. 

Render  disliked  both  melodrama  and  sentimentality.  Both 
were  here. 

"Take  my  advice,"  he  said  smiling.  "Don't  think  too 
much  about  the  place.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  that  we  met.  Good 
afternoon." 

Davray  did  not  seem  to  have  noticed  him ;  he  was  staring 
down  again  at  the  Bishop's  Tomb.  Render  walked  away. 
A  strange  man!  A  strange  day!  How  different  people 
were!     Neither  better  nor  worse,  but  just  different-      As 


198  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

many  varieties  as  there  were  particles  of  sand  on  the  sea- 
shore. 

How  impossible  to  be  bored  with  life.  Nevertheless,  enter- 
ing his  own  home  he  was  instantly  bored.  He  found  there, 
having  tea  with  his  aunt  and  sitting  beneath  the  Hermes, 
80  that  the  contrast  made  her  doubly  ridiculous,  Julia  Pres- 
ton. Julia  Preston  was  to  him  tlie  most  boring  woman  in 
Polchester.  To  herself  she  was  the  most  important.  She 
was  a  widow  and  lived  in  a  little  green  house  with  a  little 
green  garden  in  the  Polchester  outskirts.  She  was  as  pretty 
as  she  had  been  twenty  years  before,  exactly  the  same,  save 
that  what  nature  had,  twenty  years  ago,  done  for  the  asking, 
it  now  did  under  compulsion.  She  believed  the  whole  world 
in  love  with  her  and  was  therefore  a  thoroughly  happy 
woman.  She  had  a  healthy  interest  in  the  affairs  of  her 
neighbours,  however  small  they  might  be,  and  believed  in 
"Truth,  Beauty,  and  the  Improvement  of  the  Lower  Classes." 

"Dear  Canon  Render,  how  nice  this  is!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You've  been  hard  at  work  all  the  afternoon,  I  know,  and 
want  your  tea.  How  splendid  work  is !  I  often  think  what 
would  life  be  without  it !" 

Render,  who  took  trouble  with  everybody,  smiled,  sat  down 
near  to  her  and  looked  as  though  he  loved  her. 

"Well,  to  be  quite  honest,  1  haven't  been  working  very 
hard.    Just  seeing  a  few  people." 

"Just  seeing  a  few  people  1"  Mrs.  Preston  used  a  laugh 
that  was  a  favourite  of  hers  because  she  had  once  been  told 
that  it  was  like  "a  tinkling  bell."  "Listen  to  him !  As 
though  tliat  weren't  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world.  Giving 
out  I  Giving  out!  What  is  so  exhausting,  and  yet  what  so 
worth  while  in  the  end?  Unselfishness!  I  really  sometimes 
jfeeJ  that  is  the  true  secret  of  life." 

-^Have  one  of  those  little  cakes,  Julia,"  said  Miss  Ronder 
drily.  She,  unlike  her  nephew,  bothered  about  very  few 
people  indeed.     "Make  a  good  tea." 

"I  will,  as  you  want  me  to,  dear  Alice,"  said  Mrs.  Pree- 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLERY  199 

ton.     "Oh,  thank  you,  Canon  Ronder!     How  good  of  yon; 
ah,  there !    I've  dropped  my  little  bag.    It's  under  that  table.  • 
Thank  you  a  thousand  times !    And  isn't  it  strange  about  Mrs. 
Brandon  and  Mr.  Morris?" 

"Isn't  what  strange?"  asked  Miss  Ronder,  regarding  her 
guest  with  grim  cynicism. 

"Oh  well — nothing  really,  except  that  every  one's  asking 
what  they  can  find  in  common.  They're  always  together. 
Last  Monday  Aggie  Combermere  met  her  coming  out  of  the 
Rectory,  then  Ellen  Stiles  saw  them  in  the  Precincts  last 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  saw  them  myself  this  morning  in 
the  High  Street." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Preston,"  said  Ronder,  "why  shouldn't 
they  go  about  together?" 

"No  reason  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Preston,  blushing  very 
prettily,  as  she  always  did  when  she  fancied  that  any  one 
was  attacking  her.  "I'm  sure  that^  I'm  only  too  glad  that 
poor  Mrs.  Brandon  has  found  a  friend.    My  motto  in  life  is, 

(*Let  us  all  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  one  another  to  the 
best  of  our  strength.' 

\  "Truly,  that's  a  thing  we  can  all  do,  isn't  it?  Life  isn't 
too  bright  for  some  people,  I  can't  help  thinking.  And 
courage  is  the  thing.  After  all,  it  isn't  life  that  13  important 
but  simply  how  brave  you  are. 

"At  least  that's  my  poor  little  idea  of  it.  But  it  does 
seem  a  little  odd  about  Mrs.  Brandon.  She's  always  kept 
so  much  to  herself  until  now." 

"You  worry  too  much  about  others,  dear  Julia,"  said  Miss 
Render. 

"Yes,  I  really  believe  I  do.  Why,  there's  my  bag  gone 
again!  Oh,  how  good  of  you.  Canon!  It's  under  that 
chair.  Yes.  I  do.  But  one  can't  help  one's  nature,  can 
one?  I  often  tell  myself  that  it's  really  no  credit  to  me 
being  unselfish.  I  was  simply  bom  that  way.  Poor  Jack 
used  to  say  that  he  wished  I  would  think  of  myself  more! 
I  think  w©  were  meant  to  share  one  another's  burdens.     I 


200  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

really  do.     And  what  Mrs.  Brandon  can  see  in  Mr.  Morris 
is  so  odd,  because  really  he  isn't  an  interesting  man." 

"Let  me  get  you  some  more  tea,"  said  Ronder. 

"No,  thank  you.  I  really  must  be  going.  I've  been  here 
an  unconscionable  time.  Oh !  there's  my  handkerchief.  How 
silly  of  me !     Thank  you  so  much !" 

She  got  up  and  prepared  to  depart,  looking  so  pretty  and 
so  helpless  that  it  was  really  astonishing  that  the  Hermes  did 
not  appreciate  her. 

"Good-bye,  dear  Canon.  No,  I  forbid  you  to  come  out. 
Oh,  well,  if  you  will.  I  hear  everj-where  of  the  splendid 
work  you're  doing.  Don't  think  it  flatten.',  but  I  do  think 
we  needed  you  here.  What  we  have  wanted  is  a  message — 
something  to  lift  us  all  up  a  little.  It's  so  easy  to  see  nothing 
but  the  dreary  round,  isn't  it?  And  all  the  time  the  stars 
are  shining.  ...  At  least  that's  how  it  seems  to  me." 

The  door  closed;  the  room  was  suddenly  silent.  Miss 
Ronder  sat  without  moving,  her  eyes  staring  in  front  of 
her. 

Soon  Ronder  returned. 

Miss  Ronder  said  nothing.  She  was  the  one  human  being 
who  had  power  to  embarrass  him.  She  was  embarrassing  him 
now. 

"Aren't  things  strange?"  he  said.  "I've  seen  four  dif- 
ferent people  this  afternoon.  They  have  all  of  their  own 
accord  instantly  talked  about  Brandon,  and  abused  him. 
Brandon  is  in  the  air.     He's  in  danger." 

Miss  Ronder  looked  her  nephew  straight  between  the 
eyes. 

"Frederick,"  she  said,  "how  much  have  you  had  to  do 
with  this?" 

"To  do  with  this?    To  do  with  what?" 

"All  this  talk  about  the  Brandons." 

"I!    Nothing  at  all." 

"Nonsense.     Don't  tell  me.     Ever  since  you  set  foot  in 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  201 

this  town  you've  been  determined  that  Brandon  should  go. 
Are  you  playing  fair?" 

He  got  up,  stood  opposite  her,  legs  apart,  his  hands  crossed 
behind  his  broad  back. 

"Fair  ?     Absolutely." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  distress.  "Through  all  these  years," 
she  said,  "I've  never  truly  known  you.  All  I  know  is  that 
you've  always  got  what  you  wanted.  You're  going  to  get 
what  you  want  now.     Do  it  decently." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  said. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said.  "I  love  you,  Fred ;  I  have  always 
loved  you.  I'd  hate  to  lose  that  love.  It's  one  of  my  most 
precious  possessions." 

He  answered  her  slowly,  as  though  he  were  thinking 
things  out.  "I've  always  told  you  the  truth,"  he  said ;  "I'm 
telling  you  the  truth  now.  Of  course  I  want  Brandon  to  go, 
and  of  course  he's  going.  But  I  haven't  to  move  a  finger  in 
the  matter.  It's  all  advancing  without  my  agency.  Bran- 
don is  ruining  himself.  Even  if  he  weren't,  I'm  quite  square 
with  him.  I  fought  him  openly  at  the  Chapter  Meeting  the 
other  day.    He  hates  me  for  it." 

"And  you  hate  himJ' 

"Hate  him?  'Not  the  least  in  the  world.  I  admire  and 
like  him.  If  only  he  were  in  a  less  powerful  position 
and  were  not  in  my  way,  I'd  be  his  best  friend.  He's  a  fine 
fellow — stupid,  blind,  conceited,  but  finer  made  than  I  am. 
I  like  him  better  than  any  man  in  the  town." 

"I  don't  understand  you" ;  she  dropped  her  eyes  from  his 
face.     "You're  extraordinary." 

He  sat  down  again  as  though  he  recognised  that  the  little 
contest  was  closed. 

"Is  there  anything  in  this,  do  you  think?  This  chatter 
about  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Morris." 

"I  don't  know.  There's  a  lot  of  talk  beginning.  Ellen 
Stiles  is  largely  responsible,  I  fancy." 


202  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

''Mrs.  Brandon  and  Morris !  Good  Lord !  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  a  man  called  Davray?" 

"Yes,  a  drunken  painter,  isn't  he  ?    Why  ?" 

"I  talked  to  him  in  the  Cathedral  this  afternoon.  He  has 
a  grudge  against  Brandon  too.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  going  up  to 
the  study." 

Ho  bent  over,  kissed  her  forehead  tenderly  and  left  the 
room. 

Throughout  that  evening  he  was  uncomfortable,  and  when 
he  was  uncomfortable  he  was  a  strange  being.  His  impulses, 
his  motives,  his  intentions  were  like  a  sheaf  of  com  bound 
tightly  about  by  his  sense  of  comfort  and  well-being.  When 
that  sense  was  disturbed  everything  fell  apart  and  he  seemed 
to  be  facing  a  new  world  full  of  elements  that  ho  always 
denied.  His  aunt  had  a  greater  power  of  disturbing  him 
than  had  any  other  human  being.  He  knew  that  she  spoke 
what  she  believed  to  be  the  truth ;  he  felt  that,  in  spite  of  her 
denials,  she  knew  him.  He  was  often  surprised  at  the  eager- 
ness with  which  he  wanted  her  approval. 

As  ho  sat  back  in  his  chair  that  evening  in  Bentinck- 
Major's  comfortable  library  and  watched  the  other,  this 
sense  of  discomfort  persisted  so  strongly  that  he  found  it  very 
difficult  to  let  his  mind  bite  into  the  discussion.  And  yet 
this  meeting  was  immensely  important  to  him.  It  was  the 
first  obvious  result  of  the  manoeuvring  of  the  last  months. 
This  was  definitely  a  meeting  of  Conspirators,  and  all  of 
those  engaged  in  it,  with  one  exception,  knew  that  that  was 
so.  Bentinck-Major  knew  it,  and  Foster  and  Ryle  and 
Rogers.  The  exception  was  Martin,  a  young  Minor  Canon, 
who  had  the  living  of  St,  Joseph's-in-the-Fields,  a  slum  pariah 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  town, 

Martin  had  been  invited  because  he  was  the  best  clergy- 
man in  Polchester.  Young  though  he  was,  every  one  was 
already  aware  of  his  strength,  integrity,  power  with  the  men 
of  the  town,  sense  of  humour  and  intelligence.     There  was, 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  203 

perhaps,  no  man  in  the  whole  of  Polchester  whom  Ronder 
was  so  anxious  to  have  on  his  side. 

He  was  a  man  with  a  scorn  of  any  intrigue,  deeply 
religious,  but  human  and  impatient  of  humbug. 

Ronder  knew  that  he  was  the  Polchester  clergyman  beyond 
all  others  who  would  in  later  years  come  to  great  power, 
although  at  present  he  had  nothing  save  his  Minor  Canonry 
and  small  living.  He  was  not  perhaps  a  deeply  read  man, 
he  was  of  no  especial  family  nor  school  and  had  graduated 
at  Durham  University.  In  appearance  he  was  common- 
place, thin,  tall,  with  light  sandy  hair  and  mild  good- 
tempered  eyes.  It  had  been  Render's  intention  that  he 
should  be  invited.  Foster,  who  was  more  responsible  for 
the  meeting  than  any  one,  had  protested. 

"Martin — what's  the  point  of  Martin?" 

"You'll  see  in  five  years'  time,"  Ronder  had  answered. 

Now,  as  Ronder  looked  round  at  them  all,  he  moved  rest- 
lessly in  his  chair. 

Was  it  true  that  his  aunt  was  changing  her  opinion  of 
him?  Would  he  have  to  deal,  during  the  coming  months, 
with  persistent  disapproval  and  opposition  from  her?  And 
it  was  so  unfair.  He  had  meant  absolutely  what  he  said, 
that  he  liked  Brandon  and  wished  him  no  harm.  He  did 
believe  that  it  was  for  the  good  of  the  town  that  Brandon 
should  go.  .  .  . 

He  was  pulled  up  by  Foster,  who  was  asking  him  to  tell 
them  exactly  what  it  was  that  they  were  to  discuss.  In- 
stinctively he  looked  at  Martin  as  he  spoke.  As  always,  with 
the  first  word  there  came  over  him  a  sense  of  mastery  and 
happiness,  a  desire  to  move  people  like  pawns,  a  readiness  to 
twist  any  principle,  moral  and  ethical,  if  he  might  bend  it 
to  his  purpose.  Instinctively  he  pitched  his  voice,  formed 
his  mouth,  spread  his  hands  upon  the  broad  arms  of  his 
chair  exactly  as  an  actor  fills  in  his  part. 

"I  object  a  little,"  he  said,  laughing,  "to  Foster's  sug^ 
geetion  that  I  am  responsible  for  our  talking  hera     I've 


204  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

no  right  to  be  responsible  for  anything  when  I've  been  in 
the  place  so  short  a  time.  All  the  same,  I  don't  want  to 
pretend  to  any  false  modesty.  I've  been  in  Polchester  long 
enough  to  be  fond  of  it,  and  I'm  going  to  be  fonder  of  it 
still  before  I've  done.  I  don't  want  to  pretend  to  any  senti- 
mentality either,  but  there  are  broader  issues  than  merely 
the  fortunes  of  this  Cathedral  in  danger. 

"Because  I  feel  the  danger,  I  intend  to  speak  out  about 
it,  and  get  any  one  on  my  side  I  can.  When  I  find  that 
Canon  Foster  who  has  been  here  so  long  and  loves  the 
Cathedral  so  passionately  and  so  honestly,  if  I  may  say  so, 
feels  as  I  do,  then  I'm  only  strengthened  in  my  determina- 
tion. I  don't  care  who  says  that  I've  no  right  to  push  myself 
forward  about  this.     I'm  not  pushing  myself  forward. 

"As  soon  as  some  one  else  will  take  the  cause  in  hand  I'll 
step  back,  but  I'm  not  going  to  see  the  battle  lost  simply 
because  I'm  afraid  of  what  people  will  say  of  me.  .  .  .  Well, 
this  is  all  fine  words.  The  point  simply  is  that,  as  every 
one  knows,  poor  Morrison  is  desperately  ill  and  the  living 
of  Pybus  St.  Anthony  may  fall  vacant  at  any  moment.  The 
appointment  is  a  Chapter  appointment.  The  living  isn't 
anj-thing  very  tremendous  in  itself,  but  it  has  been  looked 
upon  for  years  as  ihe  jumping-off  place  for  preferment  in 
the  diocese.  Time  after  time  the  man  who  has  gone  there 
has  become  the  most  important  influence  here.  Men  are 
generally  chosen,  as  I  understand  it,  with  that  in  view. 
These  are,  of  course,  all  commonplaces  to  you,  but  I'm 
recapitulating  them  because  it  makes  my  point  the  stronger. 
Morrison  with  all  his  merits  was  not  out  of  the  way  in- 
/ellectually.     This  time  we  want  an  exceptional  man. 

"I've  only  been  here  a  few  months,  but  I've  noticed  many 
things,  and  I  will  definitely  say  that  the  Cathedral  is  at  a 
crisis  in  its  history.  Perhaps  the  mere  fact  that  this  is 
Jubilee  Year  makes  us  all  more  ready  to  take  stock  than 
we  would  otherwise  have  been.  But  it  is  not  only  that.  The 
Church  is  being  attacked  from  all  sides.    I  don't  believe  that 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  205 

there  has  ever  been  a  time  when  the  west  of  England  needed 
new  blood,  new  thought,  new  energy  more  than  it  does  at 
this  tima  The  vacancy  at  Pybus  will  offer  a  most  wonderful 
opportunity  to  bring  that  force  among  us.  I  should  have 
thought  every  one  would  realise  that. 

"It  happens,  however,  that  I  have  discovered  on  first-hand 
evidence  that  there  is  a  strong  resolve  on  the  part  of  most 
important  persons  in  this  town  (I  will  mention  no  names) 
to  fill  the  living  with  the  most  unsatisfactory,  worthless  and 
conservative  influence  that  could  possibly  be  found  any- 
where. If  that  influence  succeeds  I  don't  believe  I'm 
exaggerating  when  I  say  that  the  progress  of  the  religious  life 
here  is  flung  back  fifty  years.  One  of  the  greatest  opportu- 
nities the  Chapter  can  ever  have  had  will  have  been  missed. 
I  don't  think  we  can  regard  the  crisis  as  too  serious." 

Foster  broke  in:  "Why  not  mention  names.  Canon? 
We've  no  time  to  waste.  It's  all  humbug  pretending  we 
don't  know  whom  you  mean.  It's  Brandon  who  wants  to 
put  young  Forsyth  into  Pybus  whom  we're  fighting.  Let's 
be  honest." 

"!N^o.  I  won't  allow  that,"  Render  said  quickly.  "We're 
fighting  no  personalities.  Speaking  for  myself,  there's  no 
one  I  admire  more  in  this  town  than  Brandon.  I  think  him 
reactionary  and  opposed  to  new  ideas,  and  a  dangerous 
influence  here,  but  there's  no  personal  feeling  in  any  of  this. 
We've  got  to  keep  personalities  out  of  this.  There's  some- 
thing bigger  than  our  own  likes  and  dislikes  in  this." 

"Words!  Words,"  said  Foster  angrily.  "I  hate  Bran- 
don. You  hate  him,  Ronder,  for  all  you're  so  circumspect. 
It's  true  enough  that  we  don't  want  young  Forsyth  at  Pybus, 
but  it's  truer  still  that  we  want  to  bring  the  Archdeacon's 
pride  down.    And  we're  going  to." 

The  atmosphere  was  electric.  Rogers'  thin  and  bony 
features  were  flushed  with  pleasure  at  Foster's  denunciation. 
Bentinck-Major  rubbed  his  soft  hands  one  against  the  other 
and  closed  his  eyes  as  though  he  were  determined  to  be  a 


206  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

gentleman  to  the  last;  Martin  sat  upright  in  his  chair,  his 
face  puzzled,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  Render ;  Ryle,  the  picture 
of  nervous  embarrassment,  glanced  from  one  face  to  another, 
as  though  imploring  every  one  not  to  be  angry  with  him — all 
these  sharp  words  were  certainly  not  his  fault. 

Render  was  vexed  with  himself.  He  was  certainly  not 
at  his  best  to-night.  He  had  realised  the  personalities  that 
were  around  him,  and  yet  had  not  steered  his  boat  among 
them  with  the  dexterous  skill  that  was  usually  his. 

In  his  heart  he  cursed  Foster  for  a  meddling,  cantanker- 
ous fanatic, 

Rogers  broke  in.  "I  must  say,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  strange 
shrill  voice  like  a  peacock's,  "that  I  associate  myself  with 
every  word  of  Canon  Foster's.  Whatever  we  may  pretend 
in  public,  the  great  desire  of  our  hearts  is  to  drive  Brandon 
out  of  the  place.  The  sooner  we  do  it  the  better.  It  should 
have  been  done  long  ago." 

Martin  spoke.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "If  I  had  known 
that  this  meeting  was  to  be  a  personal  attack  on  the  Arch- 
deacon, I  never  would  have  come.  I  don't  think  the  dioceso 
has  a  finer  servant  than  Archdeacon  Brandon.  I  admire  him 
immensely.  He  has  made  mistakes.  So  do  we  all  of  course. 
But  I  have  the  highest  opinion  of  his  character,  his  work 
and  his  importance  here,  and  I  would  like  every  one  in  the 
room  to  know  that  before  we  go  any  further." 

"That's  right.  That's  right,"  said  Ryle,  smiling  around 
nervously  upon  every  one.  "Canon  Martin  is  right,  don't 
you  think?  I  hope  nobody  hero  will  say  that  I  have  any 
ill  feeling  against  the  Archdeacon.  I  haven't,  indeed,  and 
I  shouldn't  like  any  one  to  charge  me  with  it." 

Render  struck  in  then,  and  his  voice  was  so  strong,  so 
filled  with  authority,  that  every  one  looked  up  as  though  some 
new  figure  had  entered  the  room. 

"I  should  like  to  emphasise  at  once,"  he  said,  "so  that 
no  one  here  or  anywhere  else  can  be  under  the  slightest  mis- 
apprehension, that  I  will  take  part  in  nothing  that  has  any 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  207 

personal  animus  towards  anybody.  Surely  this  is  a  question 
of  Pybus  and  Forsyth  and  of  nothing  else  at  all.  I  have  not 
even  anything  against  Mr.  Forsyth;  I  have  never  seen  him 
— I  wish  him  all  the  luck  in  life.  But  we  are  fighting  a 
battle  for  the  Pybus  living  and  for  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  that. 

"If  my  own  brother  wanted  that  living  and  was  not  the 
right  man  for  it  I  would  fight  him.  The  Archdeacon  does 
not  see  the  thing  at  present  as  we  do ;  it  is  possible  that  very 
shortly  he  may.    As  soon  as  he  does  I'm  behind  him." 

Foster  shook  his  head.  "Have  it  your  ovtu  way,"  he 
said.  "Everything's  the  same  here — always  compromise. 
Compromise !  Compromise !  I'm  sick  of  the  cowardly  word. 
We'll  say  no  more  of  Brandon  for  the  moment  then.  He'll 
come  up  again,  never  fear.  He's  not  the  sort  of  man  to 
avoid  spoiling  his  own  soup." 

"Very  good,"  said  Bentinck-Major  in  his  most  patronising 
manner.  "Now  we  are  all  agreed,  I  think.  You  will  have 
noticed  that  I've  been  waiting  for  this  moment  to  suggest  that 
we  should  come  to  business.  Our  business,  I  believe,  is  to 
obtain  what  support  we  can  against  the  gift  of  the  living 
to  Mr.  Forsyth  and  to  suggest  some  other  candidate  .  .  . 
hum,  haw  .  .  .  yes,  other  candidate." 

"There's  only  one  possible  candidate,"  Foster  brought 
out,  banging  his  lean  fist  down  upon  the  table  near  to  him. 
"And  that's  Wistons  of  Hawston.  It's  been  the  wish  of  my 
heart  for  years  back  to  bring  Wistons  here.  We  don't  know, 
of  course,  if  he  would  come,  but  I  think  he  could  be  per- 
suaded. And  then — then  there'd  be  hope  once  more!  God 
would  be  served!  His  Church  would  be  a  fitting  Taber- 
nacle! .  .  ." 

He  broke  off.  Amazing  to  see  the  rapt  devotion  that  now 
lighted  up  his  ugly  face  until  it  shone  with  saintly  beauty. 
The  harsh  lines  were  softened,  the  eyes  were  gentle,  the 
mouth  tender.  "Then  indeed,"  he  almost  whispered,  "I 
might  say  my  'Nunc  Dimittis'  and  go." 


208  THE  CATHEDRAL 

It  was  not  he  alone  who  was  stirred.  Martin  spoke 
eagerly:  "Is  that  the  Wistons  of  the  Four  Creeds'i — the 
man  who  wrote  The  New  Apocalypse  V* 

Foster  smiled.  "There's  only  one  Wistons,"  he  said,  pride 
ringing  in  his  voice  as  though  he  were  speaking  of  his 
favourite  son,  "for  all  the  world." 

"Why,  that  would  be  magnificent,"  Martin  said,  "if  he'd 
come.     But  would  he?    I  should  think  that  very  doubtful." 

"I  think  he  would,"  said  Foster  softly,  still  as  though  he 
were  speaking  to  himself. 

"Why,  that,  of  course,  is  wonderful!"  Martin  looked 
round  upon  them  all,  his  eyes  glowing.     "There  isn't  a  man 

in  England "     He  broke  off.     "But  surely  if  there's  a 

real  chance  of  getting  Wistons  nobody  on  the  Chapter  would 
dream  of  proposing  a  man  like  Forsyth.    It's  incredible!" 

"Incredible  I"  burst  in  Foster.  "Not  a  bit  of  it !  Do  you 
suppose  Brandon — I  beg  pardon  for  mentioning  his  name,  as 
we're  all  so  particular — do  you  suppose  Brandon  wouldn't 
fight  just  such  a  man?  He  regards  him  as  dangerous, 
modem,  subversive,  heretical,  anything  you  pleasa  Wistons  I 
Why,  he'd  make  Brandon's  hair  stand  on  end  I" 

"Well,"  said  Martin  gravely,  "if  there's  any  real  chance  of 
getting  Wistons  into  this  diocese  I'll  work  for  it  with  my 
coat  off." 

"Good,"  said  Benti nek-Major,  tapping  with  a  little  gold 
pencil  that  he  had  been  fingering,  on  the  table.  "Now  we 
are  all  agreed.  The  next  question  is,  what  steps  are  we 
to  take?" 

They  all  looked  instinctively  at  Ronder.  He  felt  their 
glances.  He  was  happy,  assured,  comfortable  once  more. 
He  was  master  of  them.  They  lay  in  his  hand  for  him  to 
do  as  ho  would  with  them.  His  brain  now  moved  clearly, 
smoothly,  like  a  beautiful  shining  machina  His  eyes 
glowed. 

"Now,  it's  occurred  to  mo "  ho  said.     They  all  drew 

their  chairs  closer. 


CHAPTER  V 


FALK   BY  THE   KIVEB 


T  TPON  that  same  evening  when  the  conspirators  met  in 
^^  Bentinck-Major's  handsome  study  Mrs.  Brandon  had 
a  ridiculous  fit  of  hysterics. 

She  had  never  had  hysterics  before;  the  fit  came  upon 
her  now  when  she  was  sitting  in  front  of  her  glass  brushing 
her  hair.  She  was  dressing  for  dinner  and  could  see  her 
reflection,  white  and  thin,  in  the  mirror  before  her.  Sud- 
denly the  face  in  the  glass  began  to  smile  and  it  became  at 
that  same  instant  another  face  that  she  had  never  seen 
before. 

It  was  a  horrid  smile  and  broke  suddenly  into  laughter. 
It  was  as  though  the  face  had  been  hit  by  something  and 
cracked  then  into  a  thousand  pieces. 

She  laughed  until  the  tears  poured  down  her  cheeks,  but 
her  eyes  protested,  looking  piteously  and  in  dismay  from  the 
studied  glass.  She  knew  that  she  was  laughing  with  shrill 
high  cries,  and  behind  her  horror  at  her  collapse  there  was 
a  desperate  protesting  attempt  to  calm  herself,  driven,  above 
all,  upon  her  agitated  heart  by  the  fear  lest  her  husband 
should  come  in  and  discover  her. 

The  laughter  ceased  quite  suddenly  and  was  followed  by 
a  rush  of  tears.  She  cried  as  though  her  heart  would  break, 
then,  with  trembling  steps,  crossed  to  her  bed  and  lay  down. 
Very  shortly  she  must  control  herself  because  the  dinner- 
bell  would  ring  and  she  must  go.  To  stay  and  send  the 
conventional  excuse  of  a  headache  would  bring  her  husband 
up  to  her,  and  although  he  was  so  full  of  his  own  affairs 

209 


210  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

that  the  questions  that  he  would  ask  her  would  be  perfunc- 
tory and  absent-minded,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  endure, 
just  now,  to  be  alone  with  him. 

She  lay  on  her  bed  shivering  and  wondering  what  malign 
power  it  was  that  had  seized  her.  Malign  it  was,  she  did  not 
for  an  instant  doubt  She  had  asked,  did  ask,  for  so  little. 
Only  to  see  Morris  for  a  moment  every  day.  To  see  him 
anywhere  in  as  public  a  place  as  you  please,  but  to  see  him, 
to  hear  his  voice,  to  look  into  his  eyes,  to  touch  his  hand 
(soft  and  gentle  like  a  woman's  hand) — that  had  been  now 
for  months  an  absolute  necessity.  She  did  not  ask  more  than 
that,  and  yet  she  was  aware  that  there  was  no  pause  in  the 
accumulating  force  of  the  passion  that  was  seizing  her.  She 
was  being  drawn  along  by  two  opposite  powers — the  tender- 
ness of  protective  maternal  love  and  the  ruthlessness  of  the 
lust  for  possession. 

She  wanted  to  care  for  him,  to  watch  over  him,  to  guard 
him,  to  do  everything  for  him,  and  also  she  wanted  to  feel 
her  hold  over  him,  to  see  him  move,  almost  as  though  he 
were  hypnotised,  towards  her. 

The  thought  of  him,  the  perpetual  incessant  thought  of 
him,  niled  out  tlie  thought  of  every  one  else  in  the  world — 
save  only  Falk.  She  scarcely  now  considered  her  husband  at 
all ;  she  never  for  an  instant  wondered  whether  people  in  the 
town  were  talking.  She  saw  only  Morris  and  her  future 
with  Morris — only  that  and  Falk. 

Upon  Falk  now  everything  hung.  She  had  made  a  kind 
of  bargain.  If  Falk  stayed  and  loved  her  and  cared  for 
her  she  would  resist  the  power  that  was  drawing  her  towards 
Morris.  Now,  a  million  times  more  than  before  she  had 
met  Morris,  she  must  have  some  one  for  whom  she  could 
care.  It  was  as  though  a  lamp  had  been  lit  and  Hung  a  great 
track  of  light  over  those  dark,  empty  earlier  years.  How 
could  she  ever  have  lived  as  she  did?  The  hunger,  the 
desperate,  eager,  greedy  hunger  was  roused  in  her.     Falk 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  211 

could  satisfy  it,  but,  if  he  would  not,  then  she  would  hesitate 
no  longer. 

She  would  seize  Morris  as  a  tiger  seizes  its  prey.  She 
did  not  disguise  that  from  herself.  As  she  lay  now, 
trembling,  upon  her  bed,  she  never  hesitated  to  admit  to 
herself  that  the  thought  of  her  domination  over  Morris  was 
her  great  glory.  She  had  never  dominated  any  one  before. 
He  followed  her  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  and  she  was  not 
young,  she  was  not  beautiful,  she  was  not  clever.  .  .  . 

It  was  her  own  personal,  personal,  personal  triumph.  And 
then,  on  that,  there  swept  over  her  the  flood  of  her  tender- 
ness for  him,  how  she  longed  to  be  good  to  him,  to  care  for 
him,  to  mend  and  sew  and  cook  and  wash  for  him,  to  perform 
the  humblest  tasks  for  him,  to  nurse  him  and  protect  him. 
She  knew  that  the  end  of  this  might  be  social  ruin  for  both  of 
them!  .  .  .  Ah,  well,  then,  he  would  only  need  her  the 
more!  She  was  quieter  now — the  trembling  ceased.  How 
strange  the  way  that  during  these  months  they  had  been 
meeting,  so  often  without  their  own  direct  agency  at  all ! 
She  recalled  every  moment,  every  gesture,  every  word.  He 
seemed  already  to  be  part  of  herself,  moving  within  her- 
self. 

She  sat  up  on  her  bed ;  moved  back  to  her  glass.  She 
bathed  her  face,  slipped  on  her  dress,  and  went  down- 
stairs. 

They  were  a  family  party  at  dinner,  but,  of  course,  with- 
out Ealk.    He  was  always  out  in  the  evening  now. 

Joan  talked,  chattered  on.  The  meal  was  soon  over.  The 
Archdeacon  went  to  his  study,  and  the  two  women  sat  in 
the  drawing-room,  Joan  by  the  window,  Mrs.  Brandon, 
hidden  in  a  high  arm-chair,  near  the  fireplace.  The  clock 
ticked  on  and  the  Cathedral  bells  struck  the  quarters.  Joan's 
white  dress  beyond  the  circle  of  lamp-light  was  a  dim 
shadow.  Mrs.  Brandon  turned  the  pages  of  her  book,  her 
ears  straining  for  the  sound  of  Falk's  return. 

As  she  sat  there,  so  inattentively  turning  the  pages  of  her 


212  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

book,  the  foreboding  sense  of  some  approaching  drama  flooded 
the  room.  For  how  many  years  had  she  lived  from  day  to 
day  and  nothing  had  occurred — so  long  that  life  had  been 
unconscious,  doped,  inert.  Now  it  had  sprung  into  vitality 
again  with  the  sudden  frantic  impertinence  of  a  Jack-in-the- 
Box.  For  twenty  years  you  are  dry  on  the  banks,  half-asleep, 
stretching  out  lazy  fingers  for  food,  slumbering,  waking, 
slumbering  again.  Suddenly  a  wave  comes  and  you  are 
swept  off — swept  off  into  what  disastrous  sea  ? 

She  did  not  think  in  pictures,  it  was  not  her  way,  but 
to-night,  half-terrified,  half-exultant,  in  the  long  dim  room 
she  waited,  the  pressure  of  her  heart  beating  up  into  her 
throat,  listening,  watching  Joan  furtively,  seeing  Morris, 
his  eternal  shadow,  itching  with  its  long  tapering  fingers  to 
draw  her  away  with  him  beyond  the  house.  No,  she  would 
be  true  with  herself.  It  was  he  who  would  be  drawn  away. 
The  power  was  in  her,  not  in  him.    .    .    . 

She  looked  wearily  across  at  Joan.  The  child  was  irritat- 
ing to  her  as  she  had  always  been.  She  had  never,  in  any 
case,  cared  for  her  own  sex,  and  now,  as  so  frequently  with 
women  who  are  about  to  plunge  into  some  passionate  situa- 
tion, she  regarded  every  one  she  saw  as  a  potential  interferes 
She  despised  women  as  most  women  in  their  secret  hearts  do, 
and  especially  she  despised  Joan. 

"You'd  better  go  up  to  bed,  dear.     It's  half-past  ten." 

Without  a  word  Joan  got  up,  came  across  the  room,  kissed 
her  mother,  went  to  the  door.    Then  she  paused. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  hesitating,  and  then  speaking  timidly, 
"is  father  all  right?" 

"All  right,  dear?" 

"Yes.  He  doesn't  look  well.  His  forehead  is  all  flushed, 
and  I  overheard  some  one  at  the  Sampsons'  say  the  other 
day  that  he  wasn't  well  really,  that  he  must  take  great  care 
of  himself.    Ought  he  to  ?" 

"Ought  he  what?" 

"To  take  great  care  of  himself." 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  213 

'What  nonsense !"  Mrs.  Brandon  turned  back  to  her  book 
impatiently.  "There  never  was  any  one  so  strong  and 
healthy." 

"He's  always  worrying  about  something.    It's  his  nature." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Joan  vanished.  Mrs.  Brandon  sat,  staring  before  her, 
her  mind  running  with  the  clock — tick-tick-tick-tick — and 
then  suddenly  jumping  at  the  mellow  liquid  gurgle  that  it 
sometimes  gave.  Would  her  husband  come  in  and  say  g-ood- 
night  ? 

How  she  had  grown,  during  these  last  weeks,  to  loathe 
his  kiss!  He  would  stand  behind  ber  chair,  bending  his 
great  body  over  her,  his  red  face  would  come  down,  then  the 
whiff  of  tobacco,  then  the  rough  pressure  on  her  cheek,  the 
hard,  unmeaning  contact  of  his  lips  and  hers.  His  beauti- 
ful eyes  would  stare  beyond  her,  absently  into  the  room. 
Beautiful!  Why,  yes,  they  were  famous  eyes,  famous  the 
diocese  through.  How  well  she  remembered  those  years, 
long  ago,  when  they  had  seemed  to  speak  to  her  of  every 
conceivable  tenderness  and  sweetness,  and  how,  when  he  thus 
had  bent  over  her,  she  had  stretched  up  her  hand  and  found 
the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  and  pushed  her  fingers  in,  strok- 
ing his  shirt  and  feeling  his  heart  thump,  thump,  and  so 
warm  beneath  her  touch. 

Life !  Life !  What  a  cheat !  What  a  cheat !  She  jumped 
from  her  chair,  letting  the  book  drop  upon  the  floor,  and 
began  to  pace  the  room.  And  why  should  not  this,  too, 
cheat  her  once  again?  With  the  tenderness,  the  poignancy 
with  which  she  now  looked  upon  Morris  so  once  she  had 
looked  upon  Brandon.  Yes,  that  might  be.  She  would  cheat 
herself  no  longer.  But  she  was  older  now.  This  was  the 
last  chance  to  live — definitely,  positively  the  last.  It  was 
not  the  desire  to  be  loved,  this  time,  that  drove  her  forward 
so  urgently  as  the  desire  to  love.  She  knew  that,  because 
Falk  would  do.     If  Falk  would  stay,  would  let  her  care 


214  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

for  him  and  mother  him  and  be  with  him,  she  would  drive 
Morris  from  her  heart  and  brain. 

Yes,  she  almost  cried  aloud  in  the  dark  room.  "Give  me 
Falk  and  I  will  leave  the  other.  Give  me  my  OAvn  son. 
That's  my  right — every  mother's  right.  If  I  am  refused  it, 
it  is  just  that  I  should  take  what  I  can  get  instead." 

"Give  him  to  me!  Give  him  to  me!"  One  thing  at  least 
was  certain.  She  coidd  never  return  to  the  old  lethargy. 
That  first  meeting  with  Morris  had  fired  her  into  life.  She 
could  not  go  back  and  she  was  glad  that  she  could  not.  .  .  . 

She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room  to  listen.  The 
hall-door  closed  softly;  suddenly  the  line  of  light  below  the 
door  vanished.  Some  one  had  turned  do^vn  the  hall-lamp. 
She  went  to  the  drawing-room  door,  opened  it,  looked  out, 
erving  softly : 

"^"Falk!     Falk!" 

"Yes,  mother."  He  came  across  to  her.  He  was  holding 
a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand.     "Are  you  still  iip  ?" 

"Yes,  it  isn't  very  late.  Barely  eleven.  Come  into  the 
drawing-room." 

They  went  back  into  the  room.  He  closed  the  door  behind 
him,  then  put  the  candle  down  on  to  a  small  round  table; 
they  sat  in  the  candle-light,  one  on  either  side  of  the  table. 

He  looked  at  her  and  thought  how  small  and  fragile  she 
looked  and  how  little,  anyway,  she  meant  to  him. 

How  much  most  mothers  meant  to  their  sons,  and  how 
little  she  had  ever  meant  to  him!  He  had  always  taken 
his  father's  view  of  her,  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to 
be  there,  that  she  naturally  did  her  best,  but  that  she  did 
not  expect  you  to  think  about  her. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,"  he  said,  wishing  that  she  would 
release  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  spoke  to  him  spontane- 
ously, losing  entirely  the  sense  that  she  had  always  had,  that 
both  he  and  his  father  would  go  away  and  leave  her  if  she 
were  tiresome. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  215 

To-night  he  would  not  go  away — not  until  she  had  struck 
her  bargain  with  him. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to  all  these  weeks,  Falk?"  she 
asked. 

"Up  to  ?"  he  repeated.    Her  challenge  was  unexpected. 

"Yes;  of  course  I  know  you're  up  to  something,  and  you 
know  that  I  know.  You  must  tell  me.  I'm  your  mother  and 
I  ought  to  be  told." 

He  knew  at  once  as  soon  as  she  spoke  that  she  was  the  very 
last  person  in  the  world  to  whom  he  wished  to  tell  anything. 
He  was  tired,  dead  tired,  and  wanted  to  go  to  bed,  but  he 
was  arrested  by  the  urgency  in  her  voice.  What  was  the 
matter  with  her?  So  intent  had  he  been,  for  the  past 
months,  on  his  own  affairs  that  he  had  not  thought  of  his 
mother  at  all.  He  looked  across  the  table  at  her — a  little 
insignificant  woman,  colourless,  with  no  personality.  And 
yet  to-night  something  was  happening  to  her.  He  felt  all 
the  impatience  of  a  man  who  is  closely  occupied  with  his 
own  drama  but  is  forced,  quite  against  his  will,  to  consider 
some  one  else. 

"There  isn't  anything  to  tell  you,  mother.  Really  there  is 
not.  I've  just  been  kicking  my  heels  round  this  blasted 
town  for  the  last  few  months  and  I'm  restless.  I'll  be  going 
up  to  London  very  shortly." 

"Why  need  you?"  she  asked  him.  The  candle  flame 
seemed  to  jump  with  the  sharpness  of  her  voica 

"Why  need  I  ?  But  of  course  I  must.  I  ask  you,  is  this 
a  place  for  any  one  to  settle  down  in  ?" 

"I  don't  know  why  it  shouldn't  be.  I  should  have  thought 
you  could  be  very  happy  here.  There  are  so  many  things 
you  could  do." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"You  could  be  a  solicitor,  or  go  into  business,  or — or — 
why,  you'd  soon  find  something." 

He  got  up,  taking  the  candle  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  if  that's  your  idea,  mother,  I'm  sorry,  but  you 


216  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

can  just  put  it  out  of  your  head  once  and  for  all.  I'd  rather 
be  buried  alive  than  stay  in  this  hole.  I  would  be  buried 
alive  if  I  stayed." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  He  was  so  tall,  so  handsome, 
and  so  distant — some  one  who  had  no  connection  with  her 
at  all.  She  too  got  up,  putting  her  little  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Then  are  we,  all  of  us,  to  count  for  nothing  at  all  ?" 

"Of  course  you  count,"  he  answered  impatiently,  irritated 
by  the  pressure  of  her  fingers  on  his  coat.  "You'll  see 
plenty  of  me.  But  you  can't  possibly  expect  me  to  live  hera 
I've  completely  wasted  my  beautiful  young  life  so  far — now 
apparently  you  want  me  to  waste  the  rest  of  it." 

"Then,"  she  said,  coming  nearer  to  him  and  dropping  her 
voice,  "take  me  with  you." 

"Take  you  with  me!"  He  stepped  back  from  her.  He 
could  not  believe  that  he  had  heard  her  correctly.  "Take 
you  with  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Take  you  with  me!" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes." 

It  was  the  greatest  surprise  of  his  life.  He  stared  at  her 
in  his  amazement,  putting  the  candle  back  upon  the  tabla 

"But  why  ?" 

"Why?  .  .  .  Why  do  you  think!  .  .  .  Because  I  love 
you  and  want  to  be  with  you." 

"Be  with  me?  Leave  this!  Leave  Polchester?  .  .  . 
Leave  father?" 

"Yes,  why  not  ?  Your  father  doesn't  need  me  any  longer. 
Nobody  wants  me  here.    Wliy  shouldn't  I  go  ?" 

He  came  close  to  her,  giving  her  now  all  his  attention, 
staring  at  her  as  though  he  were  seeing  her  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life. 

"Mother,  aren't  you  well !  .  .  .  Aren't  you  happy  ?" 

She  laughed.  "Happy!  Oh,  yes,  so  happy  that  I'd 
drown  myself  to-night  if  that  would  do  any  good." 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  217 

"Here,  sit  down."  Ho  almost  pushed  her  back  into  her 
chair.  "We've  got  to  have  this  out.  I  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about  You're  unhappy?  Why,  what's  the 
matter  ?" 

"The  matter?  Oh,  nothing!"  she  answered.  "Nothing 
at  all,  except  for  the  last  ten  years  I've  hated  this  place, 
hated  this  house,  hated  your  father." 

"Hated  father?" 

He  stared  at  her  as  though  she  had  in  a  moment  gone 
completely  mad. 

"Yes,  why  not  ?"  she  answered  quietly.  "What  has  he  ever 
done  that  I  should  feel  otherwise?  What  attention  has  he 
ever  paid  to  me?  When  has  he  ever  considered  me  except 
as  a  sort  of  convenient  housekeeper  and  mistress  whom  he 
pays  to  keep  near  him  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  hate  him  ?  You're 
very  young,  Falk,  and  it  would  probably  surprise  you  to  know 
how  many  quiet  stay-at-home  wives  there  are  who  hate  their 
good,  honest,  well-meaning  husbands." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"What's  father  ever  done,"  he  said,  "to  make  you  hate 
him?" 

She  should  have  realised  then,  from  the  sound  in  his 
voice,  that  she  was,  in  her  preoccupation  with  her  own  affairs, 
forgetting  one  of  the  principal  elements  in  the  whole  case, 
his  love  for  his  father. 

"It  isn't  what  he's  done,"  she  answered.  "It's  what  he 
hasn't  done.  Whom  has  he  ever  considered  but  himself? 
Isn't  his  conceit  so  big  that  he  can't  see  any  one  but  himself. 
Why  should  we  go  on  pretending  that  he's  so  great  and  won- 
derful? Do  you  suppose  that  any  one  can  live  for  twenty 
years  and  more  with  your  father  and  not  see  how  small  and 
selfish  and  mean  he  is  ?    How  he " 

"You're  not  to  say  that,"  Falk  interrupted  her  angrily. 
"Father  may  have  his  faults — so  has  every  one — but  we've 
got  worse  ones.  He  isn't  mean  and  he  isn't  small.  He  may 
seem  conceited,  but  that's  only  because  he  cares  so  for  the 


218  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


Cathedral  and  knows  what  he's  done  for  it.  He's  the  finest 
man  I  know  anywhere.  He  doesn't  see  things  as  I  do — I 
don't  suppose  that  father  and  son  ever  do  see  alike — but  that 
needn't  prevent  me  from  admiring  him.  Why,  mother, 
what's  come  over  you  ?  You  can't  be  well.  Leave  father ! 
Why,  it  would  be  terrible!  Think  of  the  talk  there'd  be! 
Why,  it  would  ruin  father  here.    He'd  never  get  over  it." 

She  saw  then  the  mistake  that  she  had  made.  She  looked 
across  at  him  beseechingly. 

"You're  right,  Falk.  I  didn't  mean  that,  I  don't  mean 
that.  But  I'm  so  unhappy  that  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
saying.  All  I  want  is  to  be  with  you.  It  wouldn't  hurt  father 
if  I  went  up  to  London  with  you  for  a  little.  What  I  really 
want  is  a  holiday.  I  could  come  back  after  a  month  or  two 
refreshed.     I'm  tired." 

Suddenly  while  she  was  speaking  the  ironical  contrast 
hit  him.  Here  was  he  amazed  at  his  mother  for  daring 
to  contemplate  a  step  that  would  do  his  father  harm,  while 
he,  he  who  professed  to  love  his  father,  was  about  to  do 
something  that  would  cause  the  whole  town  to  talk  for  a  year. 
But  that  was  different.  Surely  it  was  different.  He  was 
young  and  must  make  his  own  life.  He  must  bo  allowed  to 
marry  whom  he  would.  It  was  not  as  though  he  were  intend- 
ing to  ruin  the  girl.  .  .  . 

Nevertheless,  this  sudden  comparison  bewildered  and 
shocked  him. 

He  leant  across  the  table  to  her.  "You  must  never  leave 
father — never,"  he  said.  "You  mustn't  think  of  it.  He 
wants  you  badly.  He  mayn't  show  it  exactly  as  you  want 
it  Men  aren't  demonstrative  as  women  are,  but  he'd  be 
miserable  if  you  went  away.  He  loves  you  in  his  owti 
fashion,  which  is  just  as  good  as  yours,  only  different.  You 
must  never  leave  him,  mother,  do  you  hear  ?" 

She  saw  that  she  was  defeated,  entirely  and  completely. 
She  cried  to  the  Powers : 

"You've  refused  me  what  I  ask.    I  go  my  own  way,  then." 


TWO  THE  WHISPEEING  GALLERY  219 

She  got  up,  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  and  said:  "I 
daresay  you're  right,  Falk.  Forget  what  I've  said.  I 
didn't  mean  most  of  it.    Good-night,  dear." 

She  went  out,  quietly  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Falk  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night.  This  was  only  one 
of  many  sleepless  nights,  but  it  was  the  worst  of  them.  The 
night  was  warm,  and  a  faint  dim  colour  lingered  behind  the 
treetops  of  the  garden  beyond  his  open  window.  First  he  lay 
under  the  clothes,  then  upon  the  top  of  his  bed,  then  stripped, 
plunging  his  head  into  a  basin  of  water,  then,  naked  save 
for  his  soft  bedroom  slippers,  paced  his  room.  .  .  .  His  head 
was  a  flaming  fire.  The  pale  light  seemed  for  an  instant 
to  vanish,  and  the  world  was  dark  and  silent.  Then,  at 
the  striking  of  the  Cathedral  clock,  as  though  it  were  a 
signal  upon  some  stage,  the  light  slowly  crept  back  again, 
growing  ever  stronger  and  stronger.  The  birds  began  to 
twitter;  a  cock  crew.  A  bar  of  golden  light  broken  by  the 
squares  and  patterns  of  the  dark  trees  struck  the  air. 

The  shock  of  his  mother's  announcement  had  been  terrific. 
It  was  not  only  the  surprise  of  it,  it  was  the  sudden  light 
that  it  flung  upon  his  own  case.  He  had  gone,  during  these 
last  weeks,  so  far  with  Annie  Hogg  that  it  was  hard  indeed 
to  see  how  there  could  be  any  stepping  back.  They  had 
achieved  a  strange  relationship  together :  one  not  of  comrade- 
ship, nor  of  lust,  nor  of  desire,  nor  of  affection,  having  a 
little  of  all  these  things  but  not  much  of  any  of  them,  and 
finally  resembling  the  case  of  two  strangers,  shipwrecked, 
hanging  on  to  a  floating  spar  of  wood  that  might  bring  them 
into  safety. 

She  was  miserable;  he  was  miserable;  whether  she  cared 
for  him  he  could  not  tell,  nor  whether  he  cared  for  her.  The 
excitement  that  she  created  in  him  was  intense,  all-devouring, 
but  it  was  not  an  excitement  of  lust.  He  had  never  done 
more  than  kiss  her,  and  he  was  quite  ready  that  it  should 


220  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

remain  so.  He  intended,  perhaps,  to  marry  her,  but  of  that 
he  could  not  be  sure. 

But  he  could  not  leave  her;  he  could  not  keep  away  from 
her  although  he  was  seldom  happy  when  he  was  with  her. 
Slowly,  gradually,  through  their  meetings  there  had  grown 
a  bond.  He  was  more  naturally  himself  with  her  than  with 
any  other  human  being.  Although  she  excited  him  she  also 
tranquillised  him.  Increasingly  he  admired  and  respected 
her — her  honesty,  independence,  reserve,  pride.  Perhaps  it 
was  upon  that  that  their  alliance  was  really  based — upon 
mutual  respect  and  admiration.  There  had  been  never,  from 
the  very  first  moment,  any  deception  between  them.  He  had 
never  been  so  honest  with  any  one  before — certainly  not  with 
himself.  His  desire,  beyond  everything  else  in  life,  was  to 
be  honest :  to  pretend  to  no  emotion  that  he  did  not  truly  feel, 
to  see  exactly  how  he  felt  about  life,  and  to  stand  up  before 
it  unafraid  and  uncowed.  Honesty  seemed  to  him  the 
greatest  quality  in  life ;  that  was  why  he  had  been  attracted 
to  Konder.  And  yet  life  seemed  to  be  for  ever  driving  him 
into  false  positions.  Even  now  he  was  contemplating  running 
away  with  this  girl.  Until  to-night  he  had  fancied  that  he 
was  only  contemplating  it,  but  his  conversation  with  his 
mother  had  shown  him  how  near  he  was  to  a  decision. 
Nevertheless,  he  would  talk  to  Render  and  to  his  father, 
not,  of  course,  telling  them  everything,  but  catching  perhaps 
from  them  some  advice  that  would  seem  to  him  so  true  that 
it  would  guide  him. 

Finally,  when  the  gold  bar  appeared  behind  the  trees  he 
forced  himself  into  honesty  with  his  father.  How  could  ho 
have  meant  so  sincerely  that  his  mother  must  not  hurt  his 
father  when  he  himself  was  about  to  hurt  him? 

And  this  discovery  had  not  lessened  his  detennination  to 
take  the  step.  Was  ho,  then,  utterly  hypocritical  ?  He  knew 
ho  was  not. 

He  could  look  ahead  of  his  own  affair  and  see  that  in  the 
end  his  father  would  admit  that  it  had  been  best  for  him. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  221 

They  all  knew — even  his  mother  must  in  her  heart  have 
known — that  he  was  not  going  to  live  in  Polchester  for  ever. 
His  departure  for  London  was  inevitable,  and  it  simply  was 
that  he  would  take  Annie  with  him.  That  would  be  for  a 
moment  a  blow  to  his  father,  but  it  would  not  be  so  for  long. 
And  in  the  town  his  father  would  win  sympathy ;  he,  Falk, 
would  be  condemned  and  despised.  They  would  say :  "Ah, 
that  young  Brandon.  He  never  was  any  good.  His  father 
did  all  he  could,  but  it  was  no  use.  .  .  ."  And  then  in  a  little 
time  there  would  come  the  news  that  ho  was  doing  well  in- 
London,  and  all  would  be  right. 

He  looked  to  his  talk  with  Render.  Render  would  advise 
well.  Ronder  knew  life.  He  was  not  provincial  like  these 
others.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  he  was  cold.  He  went  back  to  bed  and  slept 
dreamlessly. 

Next  evening,  as  half-past  eight  was  striking,  he  was  at 
his  customary  post  by  the  river,  above  the  "Dog  and 
Pilchard." 

A  heavy  storm  was  mounting  up  behind  the  Cathedral, 
black  clouds  being  piled  tier  on  tier  as  though  some  gigantic 
shopman  were  shooting  out  rolls  of  carpet  for  the  benefit 
of  some  celestial  purchaser.  The  Cathedral  shone  in  the  last 
flash  of  the  fleeing  light  with  a  strange  phantasmal  silver 
sheen;  once  more  it  was  a  ship  sailing  high  before  the 
tempest. 

Down  by  the  river  the  dusk  was  grey  and  sodden.  The 
river,  flowing  sullenly,  was  a  lighter  dark  between  the  line  of 
houses  and  the  bending  fields.  The  air  was  so  heavy  that 
men  seemed  to  walk  with  bending  backs  as  though  the  burden 
was  more  than  they  could  sustain.  This  section  of  the  river 
had  become  now  to  Falk  something  that  was  part  of  himself. 
The  old  mill,  the  group  of  trees  beside  it,  the  low  dam  over 
which  the  water  fell  with  its  own  peculiar  drunken  gurgle, 
the  pathway  with  its  gritty  stony  surface,  so  that  it  seemed 


222  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

to  grind  its  teeth  in  protest  at  every  step  that  you  took,  on 
the  left  the  town  piled  high  behind  yon  with  the  Cathedral 
winged  and  dominant  and  supreme,  the  cool  sloping  fields 
beyond  the  river,  the  dark  bend  of  the  wood  cutting  the 
horizon — these  things  were  his  history  and  he  was  theirs. 

There  were  many  other  places  to  which  they  might  have 
gone,  other  times  that  they  might  have  chosen,  but  circum- 
stances and  accident  had  found  for  them  always  this  same 
background.  He  had  long  ago  ceased  to  consider  whether  any 
one  was  watching  them  or  talking  about  them.  They  were, 
neither  of  them,  cowards,  although  to  Annie  her  father  was  a 
figure  of  sinister  power  and  evil  desire.  She  hated  her  father, 
believed  him  capable  of  infinite  wickedness,  but  did  not  fear 
him  enough  to  hesitate  to  face  him.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
from  him  that  she  was  chiefly  escaping,  and  she  gave  to  Falk 
a  curious  consciousness  of  the  depths  of  malice  and  vice  that 
lay  hidden  behind  that  smiling  face,  in  the  secret  places  of 
that  fat  jolly  body.  Falk  was  certain  now  that  Hogg  knew 
of  their  meetings;  he  suspected  that  he  had  known  of  them 
from  the  first.  Hogg  had  his  faults  but  they  did  not  frighten 
Falk,  who  was,  indeed,  afraid  of  no  man  alive  save  only 
himself. 

The  other  element  in  the  affair  that  increased  as  the  week 
passed  was  Falk's  consciousness  of  the  strange  spirit  of 
nobility  that  there  was  in  Annie.  Although  she  stirred  him 
80  deeply  she  did  not  blind  him  as  to  her  character.  He  saw 
her  exactly  for  what  she  was — uneducated,  ignorant,  limited 
in  all  her  outlook,  common  in  many  ways,  sometimes  surly, 
often  superstitious;  but  through  all  these  things  that  strain 
of  nobility  ran,  showing  itself  in  many  unexpected  places, 
calling  to  him  like  an  echo  from  some  high,  far-distant 
source.  Because  of  it  he  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether 
after  all  the  alliance  that  was  beginning  to  spring  up  between 
them  might  not  be  something  more  permanent  and  durable 
than  at  first  he  had  ever  supposed  it  could  be.    He  was  begin- 


TWO  THE  WHISPERI:N^G  gallery  223 

ning  to  wonder  whether  he  had  not  been  fortunate  far 
beyond  his  deserts.  .  .  . 

On  this  thunder-night  they  met  like  old  friends  who  had 
known  one  another  for  many  years  and  between  whom  there 
had  never  been  anything  but  comradeship.  They  did  not  kiss, 
but  simply  touched  hands  and  moved  up  through  the  gather- 
ing dark  to  the  little  bridge  below  the  mill.  From  here  they 
felt  the  impact  of  the  chattering  water  rising  to  them  and 
falling  again  like  a  comment  on  their  talk. 

"It'll  not  be  many  more  times,"  Annie  said,  "we'll  be 
coming  here." 

"Why?"  Talk  asked. 

"Because  I'm  going  up  to  London  whether  you  come  or  no 
— and  soon  I'm  going." 

He  admired  nothing  in  her  more  than  the  clear-cut  decision 
of  her  mind,  which  moved  quietly  from  point  to  point,  asking 
no  advice,  allowing  no  regrets  when  the  decision  was  once 
made. 

"What  has  happened  since  last  time  ?" 

"Happened?  Nothing.  Only  father  and  the  'Dog,'  and 
drink.    I'm  through  with  it." 

"And  what  would  you  do  in  London  if  you  went  up 
alone  ?" 

She  flung  up  her  head  suddenly,  laughing.  "You  think 
I'm  helpless,  don't  you  ?    Well,  I'm  not." 

"iN'o,  I  don't — but  you  don't  know  London." 

"A  fearsome  place,  mebbe,  but  not  more  disgustin'  than 
father." 

There  was  irritation  in  his  voice  as  he  said : 

"Then  it  doesn't  matter  to  you  whether  I  come  with  you 
or  not  ?" 

Her  reply  was  soft.  She  suddenly  put  out  her  hand  and 
took  his. 

"Of  course  it  matters.  We're  friends.  The  best  friend 
I'm  likely  to  find,  I  reckon.    What  would  I  be  meeting  you 


224  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

for  all  these  months  if  I  didn't  care  for  you?  Juflt  to  be 
admiring  the  scenery  ? — shouldn't  like." 

She  laughed  softly. 

She  went  on :  "I'm  ready  to  go  with  you  or  without  you. 
If  we  go  together  I'm  independent,  just  as  though  I  went 
without  you.  I'm  independent  of  every  one — father  and  you 
and  all.  I'll  marry  you  if  you  want  me,  or  I'll  live  with  you 
without  marrying,  or  I'll  live  without  you  and  never  see  you 
again.  I  won't  say  that  leaving  you  wouldn't  hurt.  It 
would,  after  being  with  you  all  these  weeks;  but  I'd  rather 
be  hurt  than  be  dependent." 

He  held  her  hand  tightly  between  his  two. 

"Folks  'ud  say,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  had  no  right  to  bo 
talkin'  of  going  away  with  you — that  I'd  be  ruining  your 
future  and  making  people  look  down  on  you,  and  all  that 
Well,  that's  for  you  to  say.  If  you  think  it  harms  your 
prospects  being  with  me  you  needn't  see  me.  I've  my  own 
prospects  to  think  of.  I'm  not  going  to  have  any  man 
ashamed  of  me." 

"You're  right  to  speak  of  it,  and  we're  right  to  think  of 
it,"  said  Falk.  "It  isn't  my  prospects  that  I've  got  to  think 
about,  but  it's  my  father  I  wouldn't  like  to  hurt.  If  we  go 
away  together  there'll  be  a  great  deal  of  talk  here,  and  it  will 
all  fall  on  my  father." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  tossing  her  head  and  taking  her 
hand  away  from  his,  "don't  come.    I'm  not  asking  you.     As 

for  your  father,  he's  that  proud "    She  stopped  suddenly. 

"No.  I'm  saying  nothing  about  that.  You  care  for  him,  and 
you're  right  to.  As  far  as  that  goes,  we  needn't  go  together ; 
you  can  come  up  later  and  join  me." 

When  she  said  that,  he  knew  that  he  couldn't  bear  the 
thought  of  her  going  alone,  and  that  he  had  all  along  been 
determined  in  his  thought  that  she  should  not  go  alone. 

"If  you'd  say  you  loved  me,"  he  said,  suddenly  bending 
towards  her,  "I'd  never  let  you  out  of  my  sight  again." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would,"  she  said ;  "you  don't  know  whether 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  225 

/ou  do  love  ma  Many's  the  time  you  think  you  don't.  And 
I  don't  know  whether  I  love  you.  Sometimes  I  think  I  do. 
What's  love,  anyway?  I  dunno.  I  think  sometimes  I'm 
not  made  to  feel  that  way  towards  any  one.  But  what  I  really 
meant  to  say  to-night  is,  that  I'm  dead  sick  of  this  hanging 
on.  I'm  going  up  to  a  cousin  I've  got  Blackheath  way  a  week 
from  to-night.  If  you're  coming,  I'm  glad.  If  you're  not — 
well,  I  reckon  I'll  get  over  it." 

"A  week  from  to-day "    He  looked  out  over  the  water. 

"Aye.    That's  settled." 

Then,  unexpected,  as  she  so  often  was,  she  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  drew  his  head  down  to  her  bosom  and  let 
her  hand  rest  on  his  hair. 

"I  like  to  feel  you  there,"  she  said.  "It's  more  a  mother 
I  feel  to  you  than  a  lover." 

She  would  not  let  him  kiss  her,  but  suddenly  moved  away 
from  him,  into  the  dark,  leaving  him  where  he  stood. 

When  he  was  half-way  home  the  storm  that  had  been 
slowly,  during  the  last  hour  and  a  half,  climbing  up  above 
the  town,  broke.  As  he  was  crossing  the  market-place  the 
rain  came  down  in  torrents,  dancing  upon  the  uneven  cobbles 
with  a  kind  of  excited  frenzy,  and  thickening  the  air  with  a 
curtain  of  mist.  He  climbed  the  High  Street,  his  head  down, 
feeling  a  physical  satisfaction  in  the  fierce  soaking  that  the 
storm  was  giving  him.  The  town  was  shining  and  deserted. 
Not  a  soul  about.  No  sound  except  the  hissing,  sneering, 
chattering  whisper  of  the  deluge.  He  went  up  to  his  room 
and  changed,  putting  on  a  dinner  jacket,  and  came  down  to 
his  father's  study.  It  was  too  late  for  dinner,  but  he  was  not 
hungry;  he  did  not  know  how  long  it  was  since  he  had  felt 
hungry  last. 

He  knocked  and  went  in.  He  felt  a  desperate  urgency 
that  he  must  somehow  reconcile  the  interests  and  happiness 
of  the  two  people  who  were  then  filling  all  his  thoughts — his 
father  and  Annie.  There  must  he  a  way.  He  could  feel  st^jJ 
the  touch  of  Annie's  hand  upon  his  head;  he  was  more 


226  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

deeply  bound  to  her  by  that  evening's  conversation  than  he 
had  ever  been  before,  but  he  longed  to  be  able  to  reassure 
himself  by  some  contact  with  his  father  that  he  was  not  going 
to  hurt  the  old  man,  that  he  would  be  able  to  prove  to  him  that 
his  loyalty  was  true  and  his  aflFection  deep. 

Small  causes  produce  lasting  results,  and  the  lives  of  many 
people  would  have  been  changed  had  Falk  caught  his  father 
that  night  in  another  mood. 

The  Archdeacon  did  not  look  up  at  the  sound  of  the 
closing  door.  He  was  sitting  at  his  big  table  writing  letters, 
the  expression  of  his  face  being  that  of  a  boy  who  has  been 
kept  in  on  a  fine  afternoon  to  write  out  the  first  fifty  lines  of 
the  Iliad.  His  curly  hair  was  ruffled,  his  mouth  was  twisted 
with  disgust,  and  he  pushed  his  big  body  about  in  his  chair, 
kicked  out  his  legs  and  drew  them  in  as  though  beneath  his 
concentration  on  his  letters  he  was  longing  to  spring  up,  catch 
his  enemy  by  the  throat,  roll  him  over  on  to  the  ground  and 
kick  him. 

"Hullo,  governor!"  Falk  said,  and  settled  down  into  one 
of  the  big  leather  arm-chairs,  produced  a  pipe  from  his  pocket 
and  slowly  filled  it. 

The  Archdeacon  went  on  writing,  muttering  to  himself, 
biting  the  end  of  his  quill  pen.  He  had  not  apparently  been 
aware  of  his  son's  entrance,  but  suddenly  he  sprang  up, 
pushed  back  his  chair  until  it  nearly  fell  over,  and  began  to 
stride  up  and  down  the  room.  He  was  a  fine  figure  then, 
throwing  up  his  head,  flinging  out  his  arms,  apostrophising 
the  world. 

"Gratitude!  They  don't  know  what  it  moans.  Do  you 
think  I'll  go  on  working  for  them,  wearing  myself  to  a 
shadow,  staying  up  all  night — getting  up  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  and  then  to  have  this  sort  of  return  ?  I'll  leave  the 
place.  I'll  let  them  make  their  own  mistakes  and  see  how 
they  like  that  I'll  teach  them  gratitude.  Here  am  I ;  for 
ten  years  I've  done  nothing  but  slave  for  the  town  and  the 
Cathedral.    Who's  worked  for  them  as  I  have  ?" 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLEEY  227 

"What's  the  matter,  father?"  Falk  asked,  watching  him 
from  the  chair.  Every  one  knows  the  irritation  of  coming 
to  some  one  with  matters  so  urgent  that  they  occupy  the 
whole  of  your  mind,  and  then  discovering  that  your  audience 
has  its  own  determined  preoccupation.  "Always  thinking  of 
himself,"  Falk  continued.    "Fusses  about  nothing." 

"The  matter?"  His  father  turned  round  upon  him. 
"Everything's  the  matter.  Everything !  Here's  this  Jubilee 
business  coming  on  and  everything  going  to  ruin.  Here  am 
I,  who  know  more  about  the  Cathedral  and  what's  been  done 
in  the  Cathedral  for  the  last  ten  years  than  any  one,  and  they 
are  letting  Ryle  have  a  free  hand  over  all  the  Jubilee  Week 
services  without  another  word  to  anybody." 

"Well,  Ryle  is  the  Precentor,  isn't  he  ?"  said  Falk. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  the  Archdeacon  answered  angrily. 
"And  what  a  Precentor !  Every  one  knows  he  isn't  capable 
of  settling  anything  by  himself.  That's  been  proved  again 
and  again.  But  that's  only  one  thing.  It's  the  same  all  the 
way  round.  Opposition  everywhere.  It'll  soon  come  to  it 
that  I'll  have  to  ask  permission  from  the  Chapter  to  walk 
down  the  High  Street." 

"All  the  same,  father,"  Falk  said,  "you  can't  be  expected 
to  have  the  whole  of  the  Jubilee  on  your  shoulders.  It's  more 
than  any  one  man  can  possibly  do." 

"I  know  that.  Of  course  I  know  that.  Ryle's  case  is  only 
one  small  instance  of  the  way  the  wind's  blowing.  Every 
one's  got  to  do  their  share,  of  course.  But  in  the  last  three 
months  the  place  is  changed — the  Chapter's  disorganised, 
there's  rebellion  in  the  Choir,  among  the  Vergers,  everywhere. 
The  Cathedral  is  in  pieces.  And  why?  Who's  changed 
everything  ?    Why  is  nothing  as  it  was  three  months  ago  ?" 

"Oh,  Lord !  what  a  bore  the  old  man  is !"  thought  Falk. 
He  was  in  the  last  possible  mood  to  enter  into  any  of  his 
father's  complaints.  They  seemed  now,  as  he  looked  across 
at  him,  to  be  miles  apart.     He  felt,  suddenly,  as  though  he 


228  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

did  not  care  what  happened  to  his  father,  nor  whether  his 
feelings  were  hurt  or  no 

"Well,  tell  me  I"  said  the  Archdeacon,  spreading  his  legs 
out,  putting  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  standing  over  his 
eon.     "Who's  responsible  for  the  change  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  said  Falk  impatiently. 

"You  don't  know  ?  No,  of  course  you  don't  know,  because 
you've  taken  no  interest  in  the  Cathedral  nor  in  anything  to 
do  with  it  All  the  same,  I  should  have  thought  it  impossible 
for  any  one  to  be  in  this  town  half  an  hour  and  not  know 
who's  responsible.  There's  only  one  man,  and  that  man  is 
Eonder." 

Unfortunately  Falk  liked  Ronder,  "I  think  Ronder's 
rather  a  good  sort,"  he  said.    "A  clever  fellow,  too." 

The  Archdeacon  stared  at  him. 

"You  like  him?" 

"Yes,  father,  I  do." 

"And  of  course  it  matters  nothing  to  you  that  he  should 
fcy  your  father's  persistent  enemy  and  do  his  best  to  hinder 
him  in  everything  and  every  way  possible." 

Falk  smiled,  one  of  those  confident,  superior  smiles  that 
are  so  justly  irritating  to  any  parent. 

"Oh,  come,  father,"  he  said.  "Aren't  you  rather  exag- 
gerating ?" 

"Exaggerating  ?  Yes,  of  course  you  would  take  the  other 
side.  And  what  do  you  know  about  it?  There  you  are. 
Jelling  about  in  your  chair,  idling  week  after  week,  until  all 
the  town  talks  about  it " 

Falk  sprang  up. 

"And  whose  fault  is  it  if  I  do  idle?  What  have  I  been 
wanting  except  to  go  off  and  make  a  decent  living?  Whose 
fault ?" 

"Oh,  mine,  of  course!"  the  Archdeacon  shouted.  "Put  it 
all  down  to  me!  Say  that  I  begged  you  to  leave  Oxford, 
that  I  want  you  to  laze  the  rest  of  your  life  away.     Why 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  229 

shouldn't  you,  when  you  have  a  mother  and  sister  to  support 


you 


2" 


"Stop  that,  father."  Falk  also  was  shouting.  "You'd 
better  look  out  what  you're  saying,  or  I'll  take  you  at  your 
word  and  leave  you  altogether." 

"You  can,  for  all  I  care,"  the  Archdeacon  shouted  back. 
They  stood  there  facing  one  another,  both  of  them  red  in  the 
face,  a  curious  family  likeness  suddenly  apparent  between 
them. 

"Well,  I  will  then,"  Falk  cried,  and  rushed  from  the  room, 
banging  the  door  behind  him. 


ot  boiil 

9x1}  ,070 

ot  b-yA'd 
d  anaisid 
Uhib  oU 


CHAPTER  VI 


FALK  S  FLIGHT 


ROUNDER  sat  in  his  study  waiting  for  young  Falk  Bran- 
don. The  books  smiled  down  upon  him  from  their 
white  shelves;  because  the  spring  evening  was  chill  a  fire 
glittered  and  sparkled  and  the  deep  blue  curtains  were 
drawn.  Render  was  wearing  brown  kid  slippers  and  a  dark 
velvet  smoking- jacket.  As  he  lay  back  in  the  deep  arm-chair, 
smoking  an  old  and  familiar  briar,  his  chubby  face  was  deeply 
contented.  His  eyes  were  almost  closed ;  he  was  the  very 
symbol  of  satisfied  happy  and  kind-hearted  prosperity. 

He  was  really  touched  by  young  Falk's  approach  towards 
friendship.  He  had  in  him  a  very  pleasant  and  happy  vein 
of  sentiment  which  he  was  only  too  delighted  to  exercise  so 
long  as  no  urgent  demands  were  made  upon  it.  Once  or 
twice  women  and  men  younger  than  himself  had  made  such 
urgent  demands ;  with  what  a  hurry,  a  scurry  and  a  scamper 
had  he  then  run  from  them ! 

But  the  more  tranquil,  easy  and  unexacting  aspects  of 
sentiment  he  enjoyed.  He  liked  his  heart  to  be  warmed,  he 
liked  to  feel  that  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  the  welcome  of  the 
eye,  the  smile  of  the  lip  were  genuine  in  him  and  natural ;  he 
liked  to  put  his  hand  through  the  arm  of  a  young  cage 
human  being  who  was  full  of  vitality  and  physical  strength. 
He  disliked  so  deeply  sickness  and  decay ;  he  despised  them. 

Falk  was  young,  handsome  and  eager,  something  of  a  rebel 
— the  greater  compliment  then  that  he  should  seek  out  Ren- 
der. He  was  certainly  the  most  attractive  young  man  in 
Polchester  and,  although  that  was  not  perhaps  saying  very 

230 


THE  WHISPEEING  GALLEKY  231 

much,  after  all  Render  lived  in  Polchester  and  wished  to 
share  in  the  best  of  every  side  of  its  life. 

There  were,  however,  further,  more  actual  reasons  that 
Render  should  anticipate  Falk's  visit  with  deep  interest.  He 
had  heard,  of  course,  many  rumours  of  Falk's  indiscretions, 
rumours  that  naturally  gained  greatly  in  the  telling,  of  how 
he  had  formed  some  disgraceful  attachment  for  the  daughter 
of  a  publican  down  in  the  river  slums,  that  he  drank,  that  he 
gambled,  that  he  was  the  wickedest  young  man  in  Polchester, 
and  that  he  would  certainly  break  his  father's  heart. 

It  was  this  relation  of  the  boy  to  his  father  that  interested 
him  most  of  all.  He  continued  to  remark  to  the  little  god  who 
looked  after  his  affairs  and  kept  an  eye  upon  him  that  the  last 
thing  that  he  wanted  was  to  interfere  in  Brandon's  family 
business,  and  yet  to  the  same  little  god  he  could  not  but  com- 
ment on  the  curious  persistency  with  which  that  same  busi- 
ness would  thrust  itself  upon  his  interestv  "If  Brandon's 
wife,  son,  and  general  menage  will  persist  in  involving  them- 
selves in  absurd  situations  it's  not  my  fault,"  he  would  say. 
But  he  was  not  exactly  sorry  that  they  should. 

Indeed,  to-night,  in  the  warm  security  of  his  room,  with 
all  his  plans  advancing  towards  fulfillment,  and  life  develop- 
ing just  as  he  would  have  it,  he  felt  so  kindly  a  pity  towards 
Brandon  that  he  was  warm  with  the  desire  to  do  something 
for  him,  make  him  a  present,  or  flatter  his  vanity,  or  give  way 
publicly  to  him  about  some  contested  point  that  was  of  no 
particular  importance. 

When  young  Falk  was  ushered  in  by  the  maid-servant. 
Render,  looking  up  at  him,  thought  him  the  handsomest  boy 
he'd  ever  seen.  He  felt  ready  to  give  him  all  the  advice  in 
the  world,  and  it  was  with  the  most  genuine  warmth  of  heart 
that  he  jumped  up,  put  his  hand  en  his  shoulder,  found  him 
tobacco,  whisky  and  soda,  and  the  easiest  chair 'in  the  room. 

It  was  apparent  at  once  that  the  boy  was  worked  up  to  the 
extremity  of  his  possible  endurance.  Render  felt  instantly 
the  drama  that  he  brought  with  him,  filling  the  room  with  it, 


232  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

charging  every  word  and  every  movement  with  the  implica- 
tion of  it 

He  turned  about  in  his  chair,  struck  many  matches,  pulled 
desperately  at  his  pipe,  stared  at  Ronder  with  a  curious  mix- 
ture of  shyness  and  eagerness  that  betrayed  his  youth  and  his 
sense  of  Render's  importance.  Ronder  began  by  talking 
easily  about  nothing  at  all,  a  diversion  for  which  he  had  an 
especial  talent    Falk  suddenly  broke  upon  him : 

"Look  here.  You  don't  care  about  that  stuff — nor  do  L 
I  didn't  come  round  to  you  for  that    I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"I'll  be  very  glad  to,"  Ronder  said,  smiling.     "If  I  can." 

"Perhaps  you  can — perhaps  you  can't.  I  don't  know  you 
really,  of  course — I  only  have  my  idea  of  you.  But  you  seem 
to  me  much  older  than  I  am.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ? 
Father's  as  young  or  younger  and  so  are  so  many  of  the 
others.  But  you  must  have  made  your  mind  up  about  lifa 
I  want  to  know 'what  3'ou  think  of  it." 

"That's  a  tall  order,"  said  Ronder,  smiling.  "What  one 
thinks  of  life!  Well,  one  can't  say  all  in  a  moment,  you 
know." 

And  then,  as  though  he  had  suddenly  decided  to  take  his 
companion  seriously,  his  face  was  grave  and  his  round 
shining  eyes  wide  open. 

Falk  coloured.  "Perhaps  you  think  me  impertinent,"  he 
said.  "But  I  don't  care  a  damn  if  you  do.  After  all,  isn't  it 
an  absurd  thing  that  there  isn't  another  soul  in  this  town  you 
could  ask  such  a  question  of?  And  yet  there's  nothing  else 
so  important.  A  fellow's  thought  an  impossible  prig  if  he 
mentions  such  a  thing.  I  expect  I  seem  in  a  hurry  too,  but 
I  can  tell  you  I've  been  irritated  for  years  by  not  being  able 
to  get  at  it — the  truth,  you  know.  Why  we're  here  at  all, 
whether  there  is  some  kind  of  a  God  somewhere  or  no.  Of 
course  you've  got  to  pretend  you  think  there  is,  but  I  want  to 
know  what  you  really  think  and  I  promise  it  shan't  go  a  step 
farther.     But  most  of  all  I  want  to  know  whether  you  don't 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  233 

think  we're  meant  all  of  us  to  be  free,  and  why  being  free 
should  be  the  hardest  thing  of  all." 

"You  must  tell  me  one  thing,"  said  Bonder.  "Is  the 
impulse  that  brought  you  in  to  see  me  simply  a  general  one, 
just  because  you  are  interested  in  life,  or  is  there  some  im- 
mediate crisis  that  you  have  to  settle  ?  I  ask  that,"  he  added, 
smiling  gently,  "because  I've  noticed  that  people  don't  as  a 
rule  worry  very  urgently  about  life  unless  they  have  to  make 
up  thi^rminds  about  which  turn  in  the  road  they're  going 
to  take3!^ 

Falk  hesitated ;  then  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  "Yes,  there 
is  something.  It's  what  you'd  call  a  crisis  in  my  life,  I  sup- 
pose. It's  been  piling  up  for  months — for  years  if  you  like. 
But  I  don't  see  why  I  need  bother  you  with  that — it's 
nobody's  business  but  my  own.  Although  I  won't  deny  that 
things  you  say  may  influence  me.  You  see,  I  felt  the  first 
moment  I  met  you  that  you'd  speak  the  truth,  and  speaking 
the  truth  seems  to  me  more  important  than  anything  else  in 
the  world." 

"But,"  said  Bonder,  "I  don't  want  to  influence  you  blindly. 
You've  no  right  to  ask  me  to  advise  you  when  I  don't  know 
what  it  is  I  am  advising  you  about." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Falk,  "it's  simply  this — that  I  want  to 
go  up  to  London  and  live  my  own  life.  But  I  love  my 
father — it  would  all  be  easy  enough  if  I  didn't — and  he 
doesn't  see  things  as  I  do.  There  are  other  things  too — it's 
all  very  complicated.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  about 
my  own  affairs !  I  just  want  you  to  say  what  you  think  this 
is  all  about,  what  we're  here  for  anyway.  You  must  have 
thought  it  all  through  and  come  out  the  other  side.  You 
look  as  though  you  had." 

Bonder  hesitated.  He  really  wished  that  this  had  not 
occurred.  He  could  defeat  Brandon  without  being  given  this 
extra  weapon.  His  impulse  was  to  put  the  boy  off  with  some 
evasion  and  so  to  dismiss  him.  But  the  temptation  that  was 
always  so  strong  in  him  to  manipulate  the  power  placed  in  his 


234  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


hands  was  urging  him ;  moreover,  why  should  he  not  say  what 
he  thought  about  life?  It  was  sincere  enough.  He  had  no 
shame  of  it.  .  .  . 

"I  couldn't  advise  you  against  your  father's  wishes,"  he 
said.  "I'm  very  fond  of  your  father.  I  have  the  highest 
opinion  of  him." 

Falk  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair:  "You  needn't  advise 
me  against  him,"  he  said ;  "you  can't  have  a  higher  opinion 
of  him  than  I  have.  I'm  fonder  of  him  than  of  any  one  in 
the  world ;  I  wouldn't  be  hesitating  at  all  otherwise.  And  I 
tell  you  I  don't  want  you  to  advise  me  on  my  particular  case. 
It  just  interests  me  to  know  whether  you  believe  in  a  God 
and  whether  you  think  life  means  anything.  As  soon  as  I 
saw  you  I  said  to  myself,  'Now  I'd  like  to  know  what  he 
thinks.'    That's  all." 

"Of  course  I  believe  in  a  God,"  said  Bonder,  "I  wouldn't 
be  a  clergyman  otherwise." 

"Then  if  there's  a  God,"  said  Falk  quickly,  "why  does  He 
let  us  down,  make  us  feel  that  we  must  be  free,  and  then 
make  us  feel  that  it's  wrong  to  be  free  because,  if  we  are, 
we  hurt  the  people  we're  fond  of  ?  Do  we  live  for  ourselves 
or  for  others?  Why  isn't  it  easier  to  see  what  the  right 
thing  is?" 

"If  you  want  to  know  what  I  think  about  life,"  said 
Render,  "it's  just  this — that  we  mustn't  take  ourselves  too 
seriously,  that  we  must  work  our  utmost  at  the  thing  we're 
in,  and  give  as  little  trouble  to  others  as  possible."  """'^ 

Falk  nodded  his  head.  "Yes,  that's  very  simple.  If 
you'll  forgive  my  saying  so,  that's  the  sort  of  thing  any  one 
says  to  cover  up  what  ho  really  feels.  That's  not  what  you 
really  feel.  Anyway  it  accounts  for  simply  nothing  at  all. 
If  that's  all  there  is  in  life " 

"I  don't  say  that's  all  there  is  in  life,"  interrupted  Render 
softly,  "I  only  say  that  that  does  for  a  start — for  one's  daily 
conduct  I  mean.  But  you've  got  to  rid  your  head  of  illusions. 
Don't  expect  poetry  and  magic  for  ever  round  the  comer. 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKIKG  GALLERY  235 

Don't  dream  of  Utopias — they'll  never  come.     Mind  your 

own  daily  business." 

i    "Play  for  safety,  in  fact,"  said  Falk. 

Ronder  coloured  a  little.  "I^ot  at  all.  Take  every  kind  of 
risk  if  you  think  your  happiness  depends  upon  it.  You're 
going  to  serve  the  world  best  by  getting  what  you  want  and 
resting  contented  in  it.  It's  the  discontented  and  disap- 
pointed who  hang  things  up." 

Falk  smiled.  "You're  pushing  on  to  me  the  kind  of 
philosophy  that  I'd  like  to  follow,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
believe  in  it  for  a  moment  nor  do  I  believe  it's  what  you 
really  think,  but  I  think  I'm  ready  to  cheat  myself  if 
you  give  me  encouragement  enough.  I  don't  want  to  do  any 
one  any  harm,  but  I  must  come  to  a  conclusion  about  life  and 
then  follow  it  so  closely  that  I  can  never  have  any  doubt 
about  any  course  of  action  again.  When  I  was  a  small  boy 
the  Cathedral  used  to  terrify  me  and  dominate  me  too.  I 
believed  in  God  then,  of  course,  and  I  used  to  creep  in  and 
listen,  expecting  to  hear  Him  speak.  That  tomb  of  the  Black 
Bishop  seemed  to  me  the  place  where  He'd  most  likely  be,  and 
I  used  to  fancy  sometimes  that  He  did  speak  from  the  heart 
of  that  stone.    But  I  daresay  it  was  the  old  Bishop  himself. 

"Anyway,  I  determined  long  ago  that  the  Cathedral  has  a 
life  of  its  own,  quite  apart  from  any  of  us.  It  has  more 
immortality  in  one  stone  of  its  nave  than  we  have  in  all  our 
bodies." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  Ronder  said.  "We  have  our 
immortality — a  tiny  flame,  but  I  believe  that  it  never  dies. 
Beauty  comes  from  it  and  dwells  in  it.  We  increase  it  or 
diminish  it  as  we  live." 

"And  yet,"  said  Falk  eagerly,  "you  were  urging,  just  now, 
a  doctrine  of  what,  if  you'll  forgive  my  saying  so,  was  nothing 
but  selfishness.  How  do  you  reconcile  that  with  immor- 
tality ?" 

Ronder  laughed.  "There  have  only  been  four  doctrines  in 
the  history  of  the  world,"  he  answered,  "and  they  are  all 


J 


236  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Pursuits.  One  is  the  pursuit  of  Unselfishness.  T^ittle  chil- 
dren, love  one  another.  He  that  seeks  to  save  his  soul  shall 
lose  it.'  The  second  is  the  opposite  of  the  first — Individual- 
ism. *I  am  I.  That  is  all  1  know,  and  I  will  seek  out  my 
own  good  always  because  that  at  least  I  can  understand.' 
The  third  is  the  pursuit  of  God  and  Mysticism.  'Neither  I 
matter  nor  my  neighbour.  I  give  up  the  world  and  every  one 
and  ever>-thing  in  it  to  find  God.'  And  the  fourth  is  the 
pursuit  of  Beauty.  ^Beauty  is  Truth  and  Truth  Beauty. 
That  is  all  we  need  to  know.'  Every  man  and  woman  alive 
or  dead  has  chosen  one  of  those  four  or  a  mixture  of  them.  I 
would  say  that  there  is  something  in  all  of  them,  Charity, 
Individualism,  Worship,  Beauty.  But  finally,  when  all  is 
said  and  done,  we  remain  ourselves.  It  is  our  own  life  that  '^ 
we  must  lead,  our  own  goal  for  which  we  are  searching.  At 
the  end  of  everything  we  remain  alone,  of  ourselves,  by  our-  j 
selves,  for  ourselves.  Life  is,  finally,  a  lonely  journey  to  a  T 
lonely  bourne,  let  us  cheat  ourselves  as  we  may."  ""^^ 

Ronder  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  half  closed.  There 
was  nothing  that  he  enjoyed  more  than  delivering  his  opinions 
about  life  to  a  fit  audience — and  by  fit  he  meant  intelligent 
and  responsive.  He  liked  to  be  truthful  without  taking  risks, 
and  he  was  always  the  audience  rather  than  the  speaker  in 
company  that  might  be  dangerous.  He  almost  loved  Falk  as 
he  looked  across  at  him  and  saw  the  effect  that  his  words  had 
made  upon  him.  There  was,  Heaven  knew,  nothing  very 
original  in  what  he  had  said,  but  it  had  been  apparently  what 
the  boy  had  wanted  to  hear. 

He  jumped  up  from  his  chair:  "You're  right,"  he  said. 
"We've  got  to  lead  our  own  lives.  I've  known  it  all  along. 
When  I've  shown  them  what  I  can  do,  tlien  I'll  come  back  to 
them.  I  love  my  father,  you  know,  sir;  I  suppose  some 
people  here  think  him  tiresome  and  self-opinionated,  but  he's 
like  a  boy,  you  always  know  where  you  are  with  him.  He's 
no  idea  what  deceit  means.  He  looks  on  this  Cathedral  as  his 
own  idea,  as  though  he'd  built  it  almost,  and  of  course  that's 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  237 

dangCT-ous.  He'll  have  a  shock  one  of  these  days  and  see  that 
he's  gone  too  far,  just  as  the  Black  Bishop  did.  But  he's  a 
fine  man ;  I  don't  believe  any  one  knows  how  proud  I  am  of 
him.  And  it's  much  better  I  should  go  my  own  way  and 
earn  my  own  living  than  hang  around  him,  doing  nothing — 
isn't  it?" 

At  that  direct  appeal,  at  the  eager  gaze  that  Falk  fixed 
upon  him,  something  deep  within  Render  stirred. 

Should  he  not  even  now  advise  the  boy  to  stay  ?  One  word 
just  then  might  effect  much.  Falk  trusted  him.  He  was  the 
only  human  being  in  Polchester  to  whom  the  boy  perhaps 
had  coma  Years  afterwards  he  was  to  look  back  to  that 
moment,  see  it  crystallised  in  memory,  see  the  books,  piled 
row  upon  row,  gleam  down  upon  him,  see  the  blue  curtain 
and  hear  the  crackling  fire  ...  a  crisis  perhaps  to  himself 
as  well  as  to  Falk. 

He  went  across  to  the  boy  and  put  his  hands  on  his 
shoulders. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  think  it's  better  for  you  to  go." 

"And  about  God  and  Beauty?"  Falk  said,  staring  for  a 
moment  into  Render's  eyes,  smiling  shyly,  and  then  turning 
away.  "It's  a  long  search,  isn't  it  ?  But  as  long  as  there's 
something  there,  beyond  life,  and  I  know  there  is,  the  search 
is  worth  it." 

He  looked  rather  wistfully  at  Ronder  as  though  he  expected 
him  to  confirm  him  again.    But  Ronder  said  nothing. 

Falk  went  to  the  door :  "Well,  I  must  go.  I'll  show  them 
that  I  was  right  to  go  my  own  way.  I  want  father  to  be 
proud  of  me.  This  will  shock  him  for  a  moment,  but  soon 
he'll  see.  I  think  you'll  like  to  know,  sir,"  he  said,  suddenly 
turning  and  holding  out  his  hand,  "that  this  little  talk  has 
meant  a  lot  to  me.  It's  just  helped  me  to  make  up  my 
mind." 

When  he  had  gone  Ronder  sat  in  his  chair,  motionless,  for 
a  while;  he  jumped  up,  went  to  the  shelves,  and  found  a  book. 


238  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Before  he  sat  down  again  he  said  aloud,  as  though  he  were 
answering  some  accuser,  "Well,  I  told  him  nothing,  anyway." 

Falk  had,  from  the  moment  he  left  Ronder's  door,  his 
mind  made  up,  and  now  that  it  teas  made  up  he  wished  to 
act  as  speedily  as  possible.  And  instantly  there  followed  an 
appeal  of  the  Town,  so  urgent  and  so  poignant  that  he  was 
taken  by  surprise.  He  had  lived  there  most  of  his  days  and 
never  seen  it  until  now,  but  every  step  that  he  took  soon 
haunted  him.  He  made  his  plans  decisively,  irrevocably,  but 
he  found  himself  lingering  at  doors  and  at  windows,  peering 
over  walls,  hanging  over  the  Pol  bridge,  waiting  suddenly  as 
though  he  expected  some  message  was  about  to  be  given  to 
him. 

The  town  was  humming  with  life  those  days.  The  May 
weather  was  lovely,  softly  blue  with  cool  airs  and  little  white 
clouds  like  swollen  pin-cushions  drifting  lazily  from  point  to 
point.  The  gardens  were  dazzling  with  their  flowers,  the 
Cathedral  Green  shone  like  glass,  and  every  door-knob  and 
brass  knocker  in  the  Precincts  glittered  under  the  sun. 

The  town  was  humming  with  the  approaching  Jubilee.  It 
seemed  itself  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  preparations,  the 
old  houses  smiling  to  one  another  at  the  plans  that  they  over- 
heard, and  the  birds,  of  whom  there  were  a  vast  number, 
flying  from  wall  to  wall,  from  garden  to  garden,  from  chim- 
ney to  chimney,  with  the  exciting  news  that  they  had  gath- 
ered. 

Everj'  shop  in  the  High  Street  seemed  to  whisper  to  Falk 
as  he  passed :  "Surely  you  are  not  going  to  leave  us.  We  can 
offer  you  such  charming  things.  We've  never  been  so  gay 
in  our  lives  before  as  we  are  going  to  be  now." 

Even  the  human  beings  in  the  place  seemed  to  be  nicer  to 
him  than  they  had  ever  been  before.  They  had  never,  per- 
haps, been  very  nice  to  him,  regarding  him  with  a  quite 
definite  disapproval  even  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  because 
he  would  go  his  own  way  and  showed  them  that  he  didn't 
care  what  they  thought  of  hinu 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  239 

Now,  suddenly,  they  were  making  up  to  him.  Mrs.  Com- 
bermere,  surrounded  with  dogs,  stopped  him  in  the  High 
Street  and,  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  asked  him  why  it  was  so  long 
since  he  had  been  to  see  her,  and  then  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  heavy  gloved  hand.  That  silly  woman, 
Julia  Preston,  met  him  in  Bennett's  book  shop  and  asked  him 
to  help  her  to  choose  a  book  of  poems  for  a  friend. 

"Something  that  shall  be  both  True  and  Beautiful,  Mr. 
Brandon,"  she  said.  "There's  so  little  real  Beauty  in  our 
lives,  don't  you  think  ?"  Little  Betty  Callender  caught  him 
up  in  Orange  Street  and  chattered  to  him  about  her  painting, 
and  that  pompous  Bentinck-Major  insisted  on  his  going  into 
the  Conservative  Club  with  him,  where  he  met  old  McKenzie 
and  older  Forrester,  and  had  to  listen  to  their  golfing 
achievements. 

It  may  have  been  simply  that  every  one  in  the  town  was 
beside  and  above  himself  over  the  Jubilee  excitements — but  it 
made  it  very  hard  for  Falk.  Nothing  to  the  hardness  of 
everything  at  home.  Here  at  the  last  moment,  when  it  was 
too  late  to  change  or  alter  anything,  every  room,  every  old 
piece  of  furniture  seemed  to  appeal  to  him  with  some  especial 
claim.  For  ten  years  he  had  had  the  same  bedroom,  an  old 
low-ceilinged  room  with  queer  bulges  in  the  wall,  a  crooked 
fireplace  and  a  slanting  floor.  For  years  now  he  had  had  a 
wall-paper  with  an  ever-recurrent  scene  of  a  church  tower,  a 
snowy  hill,  and  a  large  crimson  robin.  The  robins  were 
faded,  and  the  snowy  hill  a  dingy  yellow.  There  were 
School  groups  and  Oxford  groups  on  the  walls,  and  the  book- 
case near  the  door  had  his  old  school  prizes  and  Henty  and  a 
set  of  the  Waverley  Novels  with  dark  red  covers  and  paper 
labels. 

Hardest  of  all  to  leave  was  the  view  from  the  window 
overlooking  the  Cathedral  Green  and  the  Cathedral.  That 
window  had  been  connected  with  every  incident  of  his  child- 
hood. He  had  leant  out  of  it  when  he  had  felt  sick  from 
eating  too  much,  he  had  gone  to  it  when  his  eyes  were 


240  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

brimming  with  hot  rebellious  tears  after  some  scene  with  his 
father,  he  had  known  ecstatic  joys  gazing  from  it  on  the 
first  day  of  his  return  from  school,  he  had  thrown  things 
out  of  it  on  the  heads  of  unsuspecting  strangers,  he  had 
gone  to  it  in  strange  moods  of  poetry  and  romance,  and 
watched  the  moon  like  a  plate  of  dull  and  beaten  gold  sail 
above  the  Cathedral  towers,  he  had  sat  behind  it  listening 
to  the  organ  like  a  muffled  giant  whispering  to  be  liberated 
from  grey,  confining  walls,  he  had  looked  out  of  it  on  a  still 
golden  evening  when  the  stars  were  silver  buttons  in  the  sky 
after  a  meeting  with  Annie;  he  went  to  it  and  gazed,  heart- 
sick, across  the  Green  now  when  he  was  about  to  bid  fare- 
well to  it  for  ever. 

Heart-sick  but  resolved,  it  seemed  strange  to  him  that 
after  months  of  irresolution  his  mind  should  now  be  so  firmly 
composed.  He  seemed  even,  prophetically,  to  foretell  the 
future.  What  had  reassured  him  he  did  not  know,  but  for 
himself  he  knew  that  he  was  taking  the  right  step.  For  him- 
self and  for  Annie — outside  that,  it  was  as  though  a  dark 
cloud  was  coming  up  enveloping  all  that  he  was  leaving 
b^ind.  He  could  not  tell  how  he  knew,  but  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  fleeing  from  the  city  of  Polchester,  and  were 
being  driven  forward  on  his  flight  by  powers  far  stronger 
than  he  could  control. 

He  fancied,  as  he  looked  out  of  his  window,  that  the 
Cathedral  also  was  aware  and,  aloof,  immortal,  waited  the 
inevitable  hour. 

Coming  straight  upon  his  final  arrangements  with  Annie, 
his  reconciliation  with  his  father  was  ironic  So  deeply  here 
were  his  real  aifections  stirred  that  he  could  not  consider 
deliberately  his  approaching  treachery;  nevertheless  he  did 
not  for  a  moment  contemplate  withdrawal  from  it.  It  was 
as  though  two  personalities  were  now  in  active  movement 
within  him,  the  one  old,  belonging  to  the  town,  to  his  father, 
to  his  own  youth,  the  other  new,  belonging  to  Annie,  to  the 
future,  to  ambition,  to  the  challenge  of  life  itself.     With 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  241 

every  hour  the  first  was  moving  away  from  him,  reluctantly, 
stirring  the  other  self  by  his  withdrawal  but  inevitably  mov- 
ing, never,  never  to  return. 

He  came,  late  in  the  afternoon,  into  the  study  and  found 
his  father,  balanced  on  the  top  of  a  small  ladder,  putting 
straight  "Christ's  Entry  into  Jerusalem,"  a  rather  faded  copy 
of  Benjamin  Haydon's  picture  that  had  irritated  Ealk  since 
his  earliest  youth  by  a  kind  of  false  theatricality  that  in- 
habited it. 

Falk  paused  at  the  door,  caught  up  by  a  sudden  admira- 
tion of  his  father.  He  had  his  coat  off,  and  as  he  bent  for- 
ward to  adjust  the  cord  the  vigour  and  symmetry  of  his 
body  was  magnificently  emphasized.  The  thick  strong  legs 
pressed  against  the  black  cloth  of  his  trousers,  the  fine 
rounded  thighs,  the  broad  back  almost  bursting  the  shiny 
stuff  of  the  waistcoat,  the  fine  neck  and  the  round  curly 
head,  these  denied  age  and  decay.  He  was  growing  perhaps 
a  little  stout,  the  neck  was  a  little  too  thick  for  the  collar, 
but  the  balance  and  energy  and  strength  of  the  figure  be- 
longed to  a  man  as  young  as  Falk  himself.  .  .  . 

At  the  sound  of  the  door  closing  he  turned,  and  at  once 
the  lined  forehead,  the  mouth  a  little  slack,  gave  the  man 
his  age,  but  Falk  was  to  remember  that  first  picture  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  with  a  strange  poignancy  and  deeply  affec- 
tionate pathos. 

They  had  not  met  alone  since  their  quarrel ;  their  British 
horror  of  any  scene  forbade  the  slightest  allusion  to  it.  Bran- 
don climbed  down  from  his  ladder  and  came,  smiling,  across 
to  his  son. 

At  his  happy  times,  when  he  was  at  ease  with  himself 
and  the  world,  he  had  the  confident  gaiety  of  a  child;  he 
was  at  ease  now.  He  put  his  hand  through  Falk's  arm  and 
drew  him  across  to  the  table  by  the  window. 

"I've  had  a  headache,"  he  said,  rather  as  a  child  might 
complain  to  his  elder,  "for  two  days,  and  now  it's  suddenly 
gone.      I   never  used   to   have  headaches.      But  I've  been 


242  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

irritated  lately  by  some  of  the  tomfoolery  that's  been  going 
on.  Don't  tell  your  mother;  I  haven't  said  a  word  to  her; 
but  what  do  you  take  when  you  have  a  headache  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  have  them,"  said  Falk. 

*Tm  not  going  to  stuff  myself  up  with  all  their  medicines 
and  things.  I've  never  taken  medicine  in  my  life  if  I  was 
strong  enough  to  prevent  them  giving  it  to  me,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  start  it  now." 

"Father,"  Falk  said  very  earnestly,  "don't  let  yourself 
get  so  easily  irritated.  You  usedn't  to  be.  Everybody  finds 
things  go  badly  sometimes.  It's  bad  for  you  to  allow  your- 
self to  be  worried.  Everything's  all  right  and  going  to  be 
all  right"  (The  hypocrite  that  he  felt  himself  as  he  said 
this!) 

'*You  know  that  every  one  thinks  the  world  of  you  hero. 
Don't  take  things  too  seriously." 

Brandon  nodded  his  head. 

"You're  quite  right,  Falk.  It's  very  sensible  of  you  to 
mention  it,  my  boy.  I  usedn't  to  lose  my  temper  as  I  do. 
I  must  keep  control  of  myself  better.  But  when  a  lot  of 
chattering  idiots  start  gabbling  about  things  that  they  under- 
stand as  much  about  as " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Falk,  putting  his  hand  upon  his 
father's  arm.  "But  let  them  talk.  They'll  soon  find  their 
level." 

"Yes,  and  then  there's  your  mother,"  went  on  Brandon. 
"I'm  bothered  about  her.  Have  you  noticed  anything  odd 
about  her  this  last  week  or  two  ?" 

That  his  father  should  begin  to  worry  about  his  mother 
was  certainly  astonishing  enough !  Certainly  the  first  time 
in  all  these  years  that  Brandon  had  spoken  of  her. 

"Mother?    No;  in  what  way?" 

"She's  not  herself.  She's  not  happy.  She's  worrying 
about  something." 

^^ You' re  worrying,  father,"  Falk  said,  "that's  what's  the 
matter.     She's  just  the  same.     You've  been  allowing  your- 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  243 

self  to  worry  about  everything.  Mother's  all  right."  And 
didn't  he  know,  in  his  own  secret  heart,  that  she  wasn't  ? 

Brandon  shook  his  head.  "You  may  be  right.  All  the 
same " 

Falk  said  slowly:  "Eather,  what  would  you  say  if  I 
went  up  to  London?"  This  was  a  close  approach  to  the 
subject  of  their  quarrel  of  the  other  evening. 

"When?     What  for?" 

"Oh,  at  once — to  get  something  to  do." 

"No,  not  now.    After  the  summer  we  might  talk  of  it." 

He  spoke  with  utter  decision,  as  he  had  always  done  to 
Falk,  as  though  he  were  five  years  old  and  could  naturally 
know  nothing  about  life. 

"But,  father — don't  you  think  it's  bad  for  me,  hanging 
round  here  doing  nothing  ?" 

Brandon  got  up,  went  across  to  the  little  ladder,  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  climbed  up. 

"I've  had  this  picture  twenty  years,"  he  said,  "and  it's 
never  hung  straight  yet." 

"No,  but,  father,"  said  Falk,  coming  across  to  him,  "I'm 
a  man  now,  not  a  boy.  I  can't  hang  about  any  longer — I 
can't  really." 

"We'll  talk  about  it  in  the  autumn,"  said  Brandon, 
humming  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,"  as  he  always  did, 
a  little  out  of  tune. 

"I've  got  to  earn  my  own  living,  haven't  I  ?"  said  Falk. 

"There !"  said  Brandon,  stepping  back  a  little,  so  that  he 
nearly  overbalanced.  "That's  better.  But  it  won't  stay 
like  that  for  five  minutes.     It  never  does." 

He  climbed  down  again,  his  face  rosy  with  his  exertions. 
"You  leave  it  to  me,  Falk,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head.  "I've 
got  plans  for  you." 

A  sudden  sense  of  the  contrast  between  Render  and  his 
father  smote  Falk.  His  father!  What  an  infant!  How 
helpless  against  that  other !  Moved  by  the  strangest  mixture 
of  tenderness,  regret,  pity,  he  did  what  he  had  never  in  all 


244  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

his  life  before  dreamed  of  doing,  what  he  would  have  died 
of  shame  for  doing,  had  any  one  else  been  there — put  his 
hands  on  his  fathers  shoulders  and  kissed  him  lightly  on  his 
cheek. 

He  laughed  as  he  did  so,  to  carry  off  his  embarrassment. 

"I  don't  hold  myself  bound,  you  know,  father,"  he  said. 
"I  shall  go  off  just  when  I  want  to." 

But  Brandon  was  too  deeply  confused  by  his  son's  action 
to  hear  the  words.  He  felt  a  strange,  most  idiotic  impulse 
to  hug  his  sou ;  to  place  himself  well  out  of  danger,  he  moved 
back  to  the  window,  humming  *'Onward,  Christian  Soldiers." 

He  looked  out  upon  the  Green.  "There  are  two  of  those 
choir-boys  on  the  grass  again,"  he  said.  "If  Ryle  doesn't 
keep  them  in  better  order,  I'll  let  him  know  what  I  think  of 
him.     He's  always  promising  and  never  does  anything." 

The  last  talk  of  their  lives  alone  together  was  ended. 

He  had  made  all  his  plans.  He  had  decided  that  on  the 
day  of  escape  he  would  walk  over  to  Salis  Coombe  station, 
a  matter  of  some  two  miles;  there  he  would  be  joined  by 
Annie,  whose  aunt  lived  near  there,  and  to  whom  she  could 
go  on  a  visit  the  evening  before.  They  would  catch  the  slow 
four  o'clock  train  to  Drymouth  and  then  meet  the  express 
that  reached  London  at  midnight  He  would  go  to  an 
Oxford  friend  who  lived  in  St.  John's  Wood,  and  he  and 
Annie  would  be  married  as  soon  as  possible.  Beyond  every- 
thing else  he  wanted  this  marriage  to  take  place  quickly; 
once  that  was  done  he  was  Annie's  protector,  so  long  as  she 
should  need  him.  She  should  be  free  as  she  pleased,  but  she 
would  have  some  one  to  whom  she  might  go,  some  one  who 
could  legally  provide  for  her  and  would  see  that  she  came  to 
no  harm. 

The  thing  that  he  feared  most  was  lest  any  ill  should  come 
to  her  through  the  fact  of  his  caring  for  her;  he  felt  that  he 
could  let  her  go  for  ever  the  very  day  after  his  marriage,  so 
that  he  knew  that  she  would  never  come  to  harm.    A  certain 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  245 

defiant  courage  in  her,  mingled  with  her  ignorance  and 
simplicity,  made  his  protection  of  her  the  first  thing  in  his 
life.  As  to  living,  his  Oxford  friend  was  concerned  with 
various  literary  projects,  having  a  little  money  of  his  own, 
and  much  self-confidence  and  ambition. 

He  and  Falk  had  already,  at  Oxford,  edited  a  little  paper 
together,  and  Falk  had  been  promised  some  reader's  work 
in  connection  with  one  of  the  younger  publishing  houses. 
In  after  years  he  looked  back  in  amazement  that  he  should 
have  ventured  on  the  great  London  attack  with  so  slender  a 
supply  of  ammunition — but  now,  looking  forward  in  Pol- 
chester,  that  question  of  future  livelihood  seemed  the  very 
smallest  of  his  problems. 

Perhaps,  deepest  of  all,  something  fiercely  democratic  in 
him  longed  for  the  moment  when  he  might  make  his  public 
proclamation  of  his  defiance  of  class. 

He  meant  to  set  off,  simply  as  he  was ;  they  could  send  his 
things  after  him.  If  he  indulged  in  any  pictures  of  the 
future,  he  did,  perhaps,  see  himself  returning  to  Polchester 
in  a  year's  time  or  so,  as  the  editor  of  the  most  remarkable 
of  London's  new  periodicals,  received  by  his  father  with 
enthusiasm,  and  even  Annie  admitted  into  the  family  with 
approval.  Of  course,  they  could  not  return  here  to  live  .  .  . 
it  would  be  only  a  visit.  ...  At  that  sudden  vision  of 
Annie  and  his  father  face  to  face,  that  vision  faded;  no, 
this  was  the  end  of  the  old  life.  He  must  face  that,  set  his 
shoulders  square  to  it,  steel  his  heart  to  it.  .  .  . 

That  last  luncheon  was  the  strangest  meal  that  he  had 
ever  known.  So  strange  because  it  was  so  usual — so 
ordinary !  Roast  chicken  and  apple  tart ;  his  mother  sitting 
at  the  end  of  the  table,  watching,  as  she  had  watched  through 
so  many  years,  that  everything  went  right,  her  little,  tight, 
expressionless  face,  the  mouth  set  to  give  the  right  answers 
to  the  right  questions,  her  eyes  veiled.  .  .  .  His  mind  flew 
back  to  that  strange  talk  in  the  dark  room  across  the  candle- 
lit table.     She  had  been  hysterical  that  night,  over-tired,  had 


246  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

not  known  what  she  was  saying.  Well,  she  could  never  leave 
his  father  now,  now  when  he  was  gone.  His  flight  settled 
that 

**What  are  you  doing  this  afternoon,  Falk  V 

"Why,  mother?" 

"I  only  wondered.  I  have  to  go  to  the  Deanery  about  this 
Jubilee  committee.  I  thought  you  might  walk  up  there  with 
me.     About  four." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  bo  back  in  time,  mother;  I'm  going 
out  Salis  Ck)ombe  way  to  see  a  fellow." 

He  saw  Joan,  looking  so  pretty,  sitting  opposite  to  hinL 
How  she  had  grown  lately !  Putting  her  hair  up  made  her 
seem  almost  a  woman.  But  what  a  child  in  the  grown-up 
dress  with  the  high  puffed  sleeves,  her  baby-face  laughing 
at  him  over  the  high  stiff  collar;  a  pretty  dress,  though,  that 
dark  blue  stuff  with  the  white  stripes.  .  .  .  Why  had  he 
never  considered  Joan?  She  had  never  meant  anything  to 
him  at  all.  Now,  when  he  was  going,  it  seemed  to  him 
suddenly  that  he  might  have  made  a  friend  of  her  during 
all  these  years.  She  was  a  good  girl,  kind,  good-natured, 
jolly. 

She,  too,  was  talking  about  the  Jubilee — about  some  com- 
mittee that  she  was  on  and  some  flags  that  they  were  making. 
How  exciting  to  them  all  the  Jubilee  was,  and  how  unim- 
portant to  him ! 

Some  book  she  was  talking  about.  ".  .  .  the  new  woman 
at  the  Library  is  so  nice.  She  let  me  have  it  at  onca  It's 
The  Massarenes,  mother,  darling,  by  Ouida.  The  girls  say 
it's  lovely." 

"I've  heard  of  it,  dear.  Mrs.  Sampson  was  talking  about 
it.  She  says  it's  not  a  nice  book  at  alL  I  don't  think  father 
would  like  you  to  read  it" 

"Oh,  you  don't  mind,  father,  do  you  ?" 

"What's  that?" 

The  Archdeacon  was  in  a  good  humour.  He  loved  apple 
tart 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKIISTG  GALLERY  247 

"The  Massarenes,  by  Ouida." 

"Trashy  novels.  Why  don't  you  girls  ever  read  anything 
but  novels?"  and  so  on. 

The  little  china  clock  with  the  blue  mandarin  on  the 
mantelpiece  struck  half  past  two.  He  must  be  going.  He 
threw  a  last  look  round  the  room  as  though  he  were 
desperately  committing  everything  to  memory — the  shabby, 
comfortable  chairs,  the  Landseer  "Dignity  and  Impudence," 
the  warm,  blue  carpet,  the  round  silver  biscuit-tin  on  the 
sideboard. 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  along." 

"You'll  be  back  to  dinner,  Falk  dear,  won't  you?  It's 
early  to-night.    Quarter  past  seven.    Father  has  a  meeting." 

He  looked  at  them  all.  His  father  was  sitting  badk  in  his 
chair,  a  satisfied  man. 

"Yes,  I'll  be  back,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  departure  should  be  so 
simple.  When  you  are  taking  the  most  momentous  step 
of  your  life,  surely  there  should  be  dragons  in  the  wayl 
Here  were  no  dragons.  As  he  went  down  the  High  Street 
people  smiled  at  him  and  waved  hands.  The  town  sparkled 
under  the  afternoon  sun.  It  was  market-day,  and  the  old 
fruit-woman  under  the  green  umbrella,  the  toy-man  with 
the  clockwork  monkeys,  the  flower-stalls  and  the  vegetable- 
sellers,  all  these  were  here ;  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  sheep 
and  pigs  were  penned.  Dogs  were  barking,  stout  farmers  in 
corduroy  breeches  walked  about  arguing  and  expectorating, 
and  suddenly,  above  all  the  clamour  and  bustle,  the  Cathedral 
chimes  struck  the  hour. 

He  hastened  then,  striding  up  Orange  Street,  past  the 
church  and  the  monument  on  the  hill,  through  hedges  thick 
with  flowers,  until  he  struck  off  into  the  Drymouth  Road. 
With  every  step  that  he  took  he  stirred  child  memories.  He 
reached  the  signpost  that  pointed  to  Drymouth,  to  Clinton 
St.  Mary,  to  Polchester.  This  was  the  landmark  that  he 
used  to  reach  with  his  nurse  on  his  walks.    Further  than  this 


248  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

she,  a  stout,  puffing  woman,  would  never  go.  He  had  known 
that  a  little  way  on  there  was  Rocket  Wood,  a  place  beloved 
by  him  ever  since  they  had  driven  there  for  a  picnic  in  the 
jingle,  and  he  had  found  it  all  spotted  gold  under  the  fir- 
trees,  thick  with  moss  and  yellow  with  primroses.  How 
many  fights  with  his  nurse  he  had  had  over  that  1  he  clinging 
to  the  signpost  and  screaming  that  he  would  go  on  to  the 
Wood,  she  picking  him  up  at  last  and  carrying  him  back 
down  the  road. 

He  went  on  into  the  wood  now  and  found  it  again  spotted 
with  gold,  although  it  was  too  late  for  primroses.  It  was 
all  soft  and  dark  with  pillars  of  purple  light  that  struck 
through  the  fretted  blue,  and  the  dark  shadows  of  the  leaves. 
All  hushed  and  no  living  thing — save  the  hesitating  patter 
of  some  bird  among  the  fir-cones.  He  struck  through  the 
wood  and  came  out  on  to  the  Common.  You  could  smell  the 
sea  finely  here — a  true  Glebeshire  smell,  fresh  and  salt,  full 
of  sea-pinks  and  the  westerly  gales.  On  the  top  of  the 
Common  he  paused  and  looked  back.  He  knew  that  from 
here  you  had  your  last  view  of  the  CathedraL 

Often  in  his  school  holidays  he  had  walked  out  here  to  get 
that  view.  He  had  it  now  in  its  full  glory.  When  he  was 
a  boy  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  the  Cathedral  was  like  a 
giant  lying  down  behind  the  hill  and  leaning  his  face  on  the 
hill-side.  So  it  looked  now,  its  towers  like  ears,  the  great 
East  window  shining,  a  stupendous  eye,  out  over  the  bending 
wind-driven  country.  The  sun  flashed  upon  it,  and  the 
towers  rose  grey  and  pearl-coloured  to  heaven.  Mightily 
it  looked  across  the  expanse  of  the  moor,  staring  away  and 
beyond  Falk's  little  body  into  some  vast  distance,  wrapped 
in  its  own  great  dream,  secure  in  its  mighty  memories,  intent 
upon  its  secret  purposes. 

Indifferent  to  man,  strong  upon  its  rock,  hiding  in  its 
heart  the  answer  to  all  the  questions  that  tortured  man's 
existence — and  yet,  perhaps,  aware  of  man's  immortality, 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLERY  249 

scornful  of  him  for  making  so  slight  a  use  of  that — but 
admiring  him,  too,  for  the  tenacity  of  his  courage  and  the 
undying  resurgence  of  his  hope. 

Falk,  a  black  dot  against  the  sweep  of  sky  and  the  curve 
of  the  dark  soil,  vanished  from  the  horizon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BEANDON  PUTS  ON  HIS  ARMOtTB 

BRAl^DON  was  not  surprised  when,  on  the  morning 
after  Folk's  escape,  his  son  was  not  present  at  family 
prayers.  That  was  not  a  ceremony  that  Falk  had  ever 
appreciated.  Joan  was  there,  of  course,  and  just  as  the 
Archdeacon  began  the  second  prayer  Mrs.  Brandon  slipped 
in  and  took  her  place. 

After  the  servants  had  filed  out  and  the  three  were  alone, 
Mrs.  Brandon,  with  a  curious  little  catch  in  her  voice, 
said: 

"Falk  has  been  out  all  night;  his  bed  has  not  been  slept 
in." 

Brandon's  immediate  impulse,  before  he  had  even  caught 
the  import  of  his  wife's  words,  was:  "There's  reason  for 
emotion  coming;  see  that  you  show  none." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  slowly  unfolding  the  Oleheshir» 
Morning  News  that  always  waited,  neatly,  beside  his  plate. 
His  hand  did  not  tremble,  although  his  heart  was  beating 
with  a  strange,  muffled  agitation. 

"I  suppose  he  went  off  somewhere,"  he  said.  "Ho  never 
tells  us,  of  course.     He's  getting  too  selfish  for  anything." 

He  put  down  his  newspaper  and  picked  up  his  letters. 
For  a  moment  he  felt  as  though  he  could  not  look  at  them 
in  the  presence  of  his  wife.  He  glanced  quickly  at  the 
envelopes.  There  was  nothing  there  from  Falk.  His  heart 
gave  a  little  clap  of  relief. 

"At  any  rate,  he  hasn't  written,"  he  said.  *He  can't  be 
far  away." 

260 


THE  WHISPEKING  GALLERY  251 

"There's  another  post  at  ten-thirty,"  she  answered. 

He  was  angry  with  her  for  that.  How  like  her!  Why 
could  she  not  allow  things  to  be  pleasant  as  long  as  possible  ? 

She  went  on :  "He's  taken  nothing  with  him.  Not  even 
a  hand-bag.  He  hasn't  been  back  in  the  house  since  luncheon 
yesterday." 

"Oh!  he^l  turn  up!"  Brandon  went  back  to  his  paper. 
"Mustard,  Joan,  please."  Breakfast  over,  he  went  into  his 
study  and  sat  at  the  long  writing-table,  pretending  to  be 
about  his  morning  correspondence.  He  could  not  settle  to 
that ;  he  had  never  been  one  to  whom  it  was  easy  to  control 
his  mind,  and  now  his  heart  and  soul  were  filled  with  fore- 
boding. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  for  weeks  past  he  had  been  dread- 
ing some  catastrophe.  What  catastrophe?  What  could 
occur  ? 

He  almost  spoke  aloud.     "N^ever  before  have  I  dreaded. 

Meanwhile  he  would  not  think  of  Ealk.  He  would  not. 
His  mind  flew  round  and  round  that  name  like  a  moth  round 
the  candle-light.  He  heard  half-past  ten  strike,  first  in  the 
dining-room,  then  slowly  on  his  own  mantelpiece.  A  moment 
later,  through  his  study  door  that  was  ajar,  he  heard  the 
letters  fall  with  a  soft  stir  into  the  box,  then  the  sharp  ring  of 
the  bell.    He  sat  at  his  table,  his  hands  clenched. 

"Why  doesn't  that  girl  bring  the  letters?  Why  doesn't 
that  girl  bring  the  letters?"  he  was  repeating  to  himself 
unconsciously  again  and  again. 

She  knocked  on  the  door,  came  in  and  put  the  letters  on  his 
table.  There  were  only  three.  He  saw  immediately  that  one 
was  in  Falk's  handwriting.  He  tore  the  envelope  across, 
pulled  out  the  letter,  his  fingers  trembling  now  so  that  he 
could  scarcely  hold  it,  his  heart  making  a  noise  as  of  tramp- 
ing waves  in  his  ears. 

The  letter  was  as  follows: 


252  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

North  Road  Station, 

DRYMOUTn, 

May  23,  1897. 

My  Dear  Father — I  am  ^^Titing  this  in  the  waiting-room 
at  North  Road  before  catching  the  London  train.  I  suppose 
that  I  have  done  a  cowardly  thing  in  writing  like  this  when  I 
am  away  from  you,  and  I  can't  hope  to  make  you  believe  that 
ifs  because  I  can't  bear  to  hurt  you  that  I'm  acting  like  a 
coward.  You'll  say,  justly  enough,  that  it  looks  as  though  I 
wanted  to  hurt  you  by  what  I'm  doing.  But,  father,  truly,  I've 
looked  at  it  from  every  point  of  view,  and  I  can't  see  that 
there's  anything  else  for  it  but  this.  The  first  part  of  this,  my 
going  up  to  London  to  earn  my  living,  I  can't  feel  guilty  about. 

It  seems  to  me,  truly,  the  only  thing  to  do.  I  have  tried  to 
gpeak  to  you  about  it  on  several  occasions,  but  you  have  always 
put  me  off,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  you  don't  feel  that  there's 
anything  ignominious  in  my  hanging  about  a  little  town  like 
Polchester,  doing  nothing  at  all  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  think 
my  being  sent  down  from  Oxford  as  I  was  gave  you  the  idea 
that  I  was  useless  and  would  never  be  any  good.  I'm  going  to 
prove  to  you  you're  wrong,  and  I  know  I'm  right  to  take  it  into 
my  own  hands  as  I'm  doing.  Give  me  a  little  time  and  you'll 
see  that  I'm  right.  The  other  tiling  is  more  difficult.  I  can't 
expect  you  to  forgive  me  just  yet,  but  perhaps,  later  on,  you'll 
Bee  that  it  isn't  too  bad.  Annie  Hogg,  the  daughter  of  Hogg 
down  in  Seatown,  is  with  me,  and  next  week  I  shall  marry  her. 

I  have  so  far  done  nothing  that  you  need  be  ashamed  of.  I 
love  her,  but  am  not  her  lover,  and  she  will  stay  with  relations 
away  from  me  until  I  marry  her.  I  know  this  will  seem  hor- 
rible to  you,  father,  but  it  is  a  matter  for  my  own  conscience. 
I  have  tried  to  leave  her  and  could  not,  but  even  if  I  could  I 
have  made  her,  through  my  talk,  determined  to  go  to  London 
and  try  her  luck  there.  She  loathes  her  father  and  is  unhappy 
at  home.  I  cannot  let  her  go  up  to  London  without  any  pro- 
tection, and  the  only  way  I  can  protect  her  is  by  marrying  her. 

She  is  a  fine  woman,  father,  fine  and  honourable  and  brave. 
Try  to  think  of  her  apart  from  her  father  and  her  surroundings. 
She  does  not  belong  to  them,  truly  she  does  not.  In  all  these 
months  she  has  not  tried  to  persuade  me  to  a  mean  and  shabby 
thing.  She  is  incapable  of  any  meanness.  In  all  this  business 
my  chief  trouble  is  the  unhappiness  that  this  will  bring  you. 
You  will  think  that  this  is  easy  to  say  when  it  has  made  no 
difference  to  what  I  have  done.     But  all  the  same  it  is  true. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY        .     253 

and  perhaps  later  on,  when  yon  have  got  past  a  little  of  your 
anger  with  me,  you  will  give  me  a  chance  to  prove  it.  I  have 
the  promise  of  some  literary  work  that  should  give  me  enough 
to  live  on.  I  have  taken  nothing  with  me ;  perhaps  mother  will 
pack  up  my  things  and  send  them  to  me  at  5  Parker  Street, 
St.  John's  Wood. 

Father,  give  me  a  chance  to  show  you  that  I  will  make  this 
right. — Your  loving  son,  Falk  Brandon. 

In  the  little  morning-room  to  the  right  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  Joan  and  her  mother  were  waiting.  Joan  was  pre- 
tending to  sew,  but  her  fingers  scarcely  moved.  Mrs.  Bran- 
don was  sitting  at  her  writing-table ;  her  ears  were  straining 
for  every  sound.  The  sun  flooded  the  room  with  a  fierce  rush 
of  colour,  and  through  the  wide-open  windows  the  noises  of 
the  town^  cries  and  children's  voices,  and  the  passing  of  feet 
on  the  cobbles  came  up.  As  half -past  ten  struck  the  Cathedral 
bells  began  to  ring  for  morning  service. 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  those  bells,"  Mrs.  Brandon  cried.  "Shut 
the  windows,  Joan." 

Joan  went  across  and  closed  them.  The  bells  were  sud- 
denly removed,  but  seemed  to  be  the  more  insistent  in  their 
urgency  because  they  were  shut  away. 

The  door  was  suddenly  flung  open,  and  Brandon  stood 
there. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  Mrs.  Brandon  cried,  starting  to  her 
feet. 

He  was  a  man  convulsed  with  anger;  she  had  seen  him 
in  these  rages  before,  when  his  blue  eyes  stared  with  an 
emptiness  of  vision  and  his  whole  body  seemed  to  be  twisted 
as  though  he  were  trying  to  climb  to  some  height  whence  he 
might  hurl  himself  down  and  destroy  utterly  that  upon  which 
he  fell. 

The  letter  tumbled  from  his  hand.  He  caught  the  handle 
of  the  door  as  though  he  would  tear  it  from  its  socket,  but 
his  voice,  when  at  last  it  came,  was  quiet,  almost  his  ordinary 
voice. 


254  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

''His  name  is  never  to  be  mentioned  in  this  house  again." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"That's  enough.  What  I  say.  His  name  is  never  to  be 
mentioned  again." 

The  two  women  stared  at  him.  He  seemed  to  come  down 
from  a  great  height,  turned  and  went,  very  carefully  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

He  had  left  the  letter  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  Brandon  went 
and  picked  it  up. 

"Oh,  mother,  what  has  Falk  done?"  Joan  asked. 

The  bells  danced  all  over  the  room. 

Brandon  went  downstairs,  back  into  his  study,  closing  his 
door,  shutting  himself  in.  He  stayed  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  saying  aloud: 

"Xever  his  name  again.  .  .  .  Never  his  name  again." 
The  actual  sound  of  the  words  echoing  back  to  him  lifted 
him  up  as  though  out  of  very  deep  water.  Then  he  was 
aware,  as  one  is  in  the  first  clear  moment  after  a  great  shock, 
of  a  number  of  things  at  the  same  time.  He  hated  his  son 
because  his  son  had  disgraced  him  and  his  name  for  ever. 
He  loved  his  son,  never  before  so  deeply  and  so  dearly  as 
now.  He  was  his  only  son,  and  there  was  none  other.  His 
son  had  gone  off  with  the  daughter  of  the  worst  publican 
in  the  place,  and  so  had  shamed  him  before  them  alL  Falk 
(he  arrived  in  his  mind  suddenly  at  the  name  with  a  little 
shiver  that  hurt  horribly)  would  never  be  there  any  more, 
would  never  be  about  the  house,  would  never  laugh  and  be 
angry  and  be  funny  any  more.  (Behind  this  thought  was  a 
long  train  of  pictures  of  Falk  as  a  boy,  as  a  baby,  as  a  child, 
pictures  that  he  kept  back  with  a  great  gesture  of  the  will.) 
In  the  town  they  would  all  be  talking,  they  were  talking 
already.  They  must  bo  stopped  from  talking;  they  must 
not  know.  Ho  must  lie;  they  must  all  lie.  But  how  could 
they  be  stopped  from  knowing  when  he  had  gone  off  with  the 
publican's  daughter!     They  would  all  know.   .    .    .   They 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  255 

would  laugh.  .  .  .  They  would  laugh.  He  would  not  be 
able  to  go  down  the  street  without  their  laughter. 

Dimly  on  that  came  a  larger  question.  What  had  hap- 
pened lately  so  that  his  whole  life  had  changed?  He  had 
been  feeling  it  now  for  weeks,  long  before  this  terrible  blow 
had  fallen,  as  though  he  were  surrounded  by  enemies  and 
mockers  and  men  who  wished  him  ill.  Men  who  wished  him 
ill!  Wished  HIM  ill!  He  who  had  never  done  any  one 
harm  in  all  his  life,  who  had  only  wanted  the  happiness  of 
others  and  the  good  of  the  place  in  which  he  was,  and  the 
Glory  of  God !  God !  .  .  .  His  thoughts  leapt  across  a  vast 
gulf.  What  was  God  about,  to  allow  this  disaster  to  fall 
upon  him  ?  When  he  had  served  God  so  faithfully  and  had 
had  no  thought  but  for  His  grandeur?  He  was  in  a  new 
world  now,  where  the  rivers,  the  mountains,  the  roads,  the 
cities  were  new.  For  years  everything  had  gone  well  with 
him,  and  then,  suddenly,  at  the  lifting  of  a  finger,  all  had 
been  ill.  .  .  . 

Through  the  mist  of  his  thoughts,  gradually,  like  the  sun 
in  his  strength,  his  anger  had  been  rising.  Now  it  flamed 
forth.  At  the  first  it  had  been  personal  anger  because  his 
son  had  betrayed  and  deceived  him — but  now,  for  a  time, 
Falk  was  almost  forgotten. 

He  would  show  them.  They  would  laugh  at  him,  would 
they?  They  would  point  at  him,  would  they,  as  the  man 
whose  son  had  run  away  with  an  innkeeper's  daughter? 
Well,  let  them  point.  They  would  plot  to  take  the  power 
from  his  hands,  to  reduce  him  to  impotence,  to  make  him  of 
no  account  in  the  place  where  he  had  ruled  for  years.  He 
had  no  doubt,  now  that  he  saw  farther  into  it,  that  they  had 
persuaded  Falk  to  run  away  with  that  girl.  It  was  the  sort 
of  weapon  that  they  would  be  likely  to  use,  the  sort  of  weapon 
that  that  man,  Ronder.  .  .  . 

At  the  sudden  ringing  of  that  now  hated  name  in  hia 
ears  he  was  calm.  Yes,  to  fight  that  enemy  he  needed  all 
his  control.     How  that  man  would  rejoice  at  this  that  had 


256  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

happened!  What  a  victory  to  him  it  would  seem  to  be! 
Well,  it  should  not  be  a  victory.  He  began  to  stride  up 
and  down  his  study,  his  head  up,  his  chest  out.  It  was  almost 
as  though  he  were  a  great  warrior  of  old,  having  his  armour 
put  on  before  he  went  out  to  the  fight — the  greaves,  the  breast- 
plate, the  helmet,  the  sword.  .  .  . 

Ho  would  fight  to  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  and 
beat  the  pack  of  them,  and  if  they  thought  that  this  would 
cause  him  to  hang  his  head  or  hide  or  go  secretly,  they  should 
soon  see  their  mistake. 

He  suddenly  stopped.  The  pain  that  sometimes  came  to 
his  head  attacked  him  now.  For  a  moment  it  was  so  sharp, 
of  so  acute  an  agony,  that  he  almost  staggered  and  fell.  Ho 
stood  there,  his  body  taut,  his  hands  clenched.  It  was  like 
knives  driving  through  his  brain;  his  eyes  were  filled  with 
blood  so  that  he  could  not  see.  It  passed,  but  he  was  weak, 
his  knees  shook  so  that  he  was  compelled  to  sit  down,  holding 
his  hands  on  his  knees.  Now  it  was  gone.  He  could  see 
clearly  again.  What  was  it?  Imagination,  perhaps.  Only 
the  hammering  of  his  heart  told  him  that  anything  was  the 
matter.  He  was  a  long  while  there.  At  last  he  got  up,  went 
into  the  hall,  found  his  hat  and  went  out.  Ho  crossed  the 
Green  and  passed  through  the  Cathedral  door. 

He  went  out  instinctively,  witliout  any  deliberate  thought, 
to  the  Cathedral  as  to  the  place  that  would  most  readily 
soothe  and  comfort  him.  Always  when  things  went  wrong 
he  crossed  over  to  tlio  Cathedral  and  walked  about  there, 
lilatins  were  just  concluded  and  people  were  coming  out  of 
the  great  West  door.  He  went  in  by  the  Saint  ^largaret 
door,  crossed  through  the  Vestry  where  Rogers,  who  had  been 
taking  tlie  service,  was  disrobing,  and  climbed  the  little 
crooked  stairs  into  tho  Lucifer  Room.  A  glimpse  of  Rogers' 
saturnine  countenance  (he  knew  well  enough  that  Rogers 
hated  him)  stirred  some  voice  to  whisper  within:  "He 
knows  and  he's  glad." 

The  Lucifer  Room  waa  a  favourite  resort  of  his,  favourite 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  257 

because  there  was  a  long  bare  floor  across  which  he  could  walk 
with  no  furniture  to  interrupt  him,  and  because,  too,  no  one 
ever  came  there.  It  was  a  room  in  the  Bishop's  Tower  that 
had  once,  many  hundreds  of  years  ago,  been  used  by  the 
monks  as  a  small  refectory.  Many  years  had  passed  now 
since  it  had  seen  any  sort  of  occupation  save  that  of  bats, 
owls  and  mice.  There  was  a  fireplace  at  the  far  end  that  had 
long  been  blocked  up,  but  that  still  showed  curious  carving, 
the  heads  of  monkeys  and  rabbits,  winged  birds,  a  twisting 
dragon  with  a  long  tail,  and  the  figure  of  a  saint  holding 
up  a  crucifix.  Over  the  door  was  an  old  clock  that  had 
long  ceased  to  tell  the  hours ;  this  had  a  strangely  carved  wood 
canopy.  Two  little  windows  with  faint  stained  glass  gave 
an  obscure  light.  The  subjects  of  these  windows  were  con- 
fused, but  the  old  colours,  deep  reds  and  blues,  blended  with 
a  rich  glow  that  no  modern  glass  could  obtain.  The  ribs 
and  bosses  of  the  vaulting  of  the  room  were  in  faded  colours 
and  dull  gold.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  an  old,  dusty, 
long-neglected  harmonium.  Against  the  wall  were  hanging 
some  wooden  figures,  large  life-sized  saints,  two  male  and 
two  female,  once  outside  the  building,  painted  on  the  wood 
in  faded  crimson  and  yellow  and  gold.  Much  of  the  colour 
had  been  worn  away  with  rain  and  wind,  but  two  of  the 
faces  were  still  bright  and  stared  with  a  gentle  fixed  gaze 
out  into  the  dim  air.  Two  old  banners,  torn  and  thin,  flapped 
from  one  of  the  vaultings.  The  floor  was  worn,  and  creaked 
with  every  step.  As  Brandon  pushed  back  the  heavy  door 
and  entered,  some  bird  in  a  distant  corner  flew  with  a 
frightened  stir  across  to  the  window.  Occasionally  some  one 
urged  that  steps  should  be  taken  to  renovate  the  place  and 
make  some  use  of  it,  but  nothing  was  ever  done.  Stories  con- 
nected with  it  had  faded  away ;  no  one  now  could  tell  why  it 
was  called  the  Lucifer  Room — and  no  one  cared. 

Its  dimness  and  shadowed  coloured  light  suited  Brandon 
to-day.  He  wanted  to  be  where  no  one  could  see  him,  where 
he  could  gather  together  the  resistance  with  which  to  meet 


258  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

the  world.  He  paced  up  and  down,  his  hands  behind  his 
back;  he  fancied  that  the  old  saints  looked  at  him  with 
kindly  affection. 

And  now,  for  a  moment,  all  his  pride  and  anger  were 
gone,  and  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  his  love  for  his  son- 
He  had  an  impulse  that  almost  moved  him  to  hurry  home,  to 
take  the  next  train  up  to  London,  to  find  Falk,  to  take  him 
in  his  arms  and  forgive  him.  He  saw  again  and  again  that 
last  meeting  that  they  had  had,  when  Falk  had  kissed  him. 
He  knew  now  what  that  had  meant.  After  all,  the  boy  was 
right.  He  had  been  in  the  wrong  to  have  kept  him  here, 
doing  nothing.  It  was  fine  of  the  boy  to  take  things  into  his 
own  hands,  to  show  his  independence  and  to  fight  for  his  own 
individuality.  It  was  what  he  himself  would  have  done  if 
— then  the  thought  of  Annie  Hogg  cut  across  his  tenderness 
and  behind  Annie  her  father,  that  fat,  smiling,  red-faced 
scoundrel,  the  worst  villain  in  the  town.  At  the  sudden 
realisation  that  there  was  now  a  link  between  himself  and 
that  man,  and  that  that  link  had  been  forged  by  his  own  son, 
tenderness  and  affection  fled.  He  could  only  entertain  one 
emotion  at  a  time,  and  immediately  he  was  swept  into  such 
a  fury  that  he  stopped  in  his  walk,  lifted  his  head,  and  cursed 
Falk.  For  that  he  would  never  forgive  him,  for  the  public 
shame  and  disgrace  that  he  had  brought  upon  tlie  Brandon 
name,  upon  his  mother  and  his  sister,  upon  the  Cathedral, 
upon  all  authority  and  discipline  and  secmliness  in  the  town. 

He  suffered  then  the  deepest  agony  that  perhaps  in  all  his 
life  he  had  ever  known.  There  was  no  one  there  to  see.  He 
sank  down  upon  the  wooden  coping  that  protruded  from  the 
old  wall  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  as  though  he  were  too 
deeply  ashamed  to  encounter  even  the  dim  faces  of  the  old 
wooden  figures. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  room ;  the  little  door  opened  and 
closed;  the  bird,  with  a  flutter  of  wings,  flew  back  to  its 
corner.  Brandon  looked  up  and  saw  a  faint  shadow  of  a 
man.     He  rose  and  took  some  steps  towards  the  door,  then 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  259 

lie  stopped  because  he  saw  that  the  man  was  Davray  the 
painter. 

He  had  never  spoken  to  this  man,  but  he  had  hated  every- 
thing that  he  had  ever  heard  about  him.  In  the  first  place, 
to  be  an  artist  was,  in  the  Archdeacon's  mind,  synonymous 
with  being  a  loose  liver  and  an  atheist.  Then  this  fellow 
was,  as  all  the  town  knew,  a  drunkard,  an  idler,  a  dissolute 
waster  who  had  brought  nothing  upon  Polchester  but  dis- 
grace. Had  Brandon  had  his  way  he  would,  long  ago,  have 
had  him  publicly  expelled  and  forbidden  ever  to  return.  The 
thought  that  this  man  should  be  in  the  Cathedral  at  all  was 
shocking  to  him  and,  in  his  present  mood,  quite  intolerable. 
He  saw,  dim  though  the  light  was,  that  the  man  was  drunk 
now. 

Davray  lurched  forward  a  step,  then  said  huskily: 

"Well,  so  your  fine  son's  run  away  with  Hogg's  pretty 
daughter." 

The  sense  that  he  had  had  already  that  his  son's  action 
had  suddenly  bound  him  into  company  with  all  the  powers 
of  evil  and  destruction  rose  to  its  full  height  at  the  sound 
of  the  man's  voice ;  but  with  it  rose,  too,  his  self-command. 
The  very  disgust  with  which  Davray  filled  him  contributed  to 
his  own  control  and  dignity. 

"You  should  feel  ashamed,  sir,"  he  said  quietly,  standing 
still  where  he  was,  "to  be  in  that  condition  in  this  building. 
Or  are  you  too  drunk  to  know  where  you  are  ?" 

"That's  all  right.  Archdeacon,"  Davray  said,  laughing. 
"Of  course  I'm  drunk.  I  generally  am — and  that's  my 
affair.  But  I'm  not  so  drunk  as  not  to  know  where  I  am  and 
not  to  know  who  you  are  and  what's  happened  to  you.  I 
know  all  those  things,  I'm  glad  to  say.  Perhaps  I  am  a  little 
ahead  of  yourself  in  that.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  yet  what 
your  young  hopeful  has  been  doing." 

Brandon  was  as  still  as  one  of  the  old  wooden  saints. 

"Then  if  you  are  sober  enough  to  know  where  you  are, 


260  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

leave  this  place  and  do  not  return  to  it  until  you  are  in  a  fit 
state." 

"Fit !  I  like  that."  The  sense  that  he  was  alone  now  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  with  the  man  whom  he  had  so  long 
hated  infuriated  Davray.  "Fit?  Let  me  tell  you  this,  old 
cock,  I'm  twice  as  fit  to  be  here  as  you're  ever  likely  to  be. 
Though  I  have  been  drinking  and  letting  myself  go,  I'm 
fitter  to  be  here  than  you  are,  you  stuck-up,  pompous  fool." 

Brandon  did  not  stir. 

"Go  home !"  he  said ;  "go  home !  Recover  your  senses  and 
ask  God's  forgiveness." 

"God's  forgiveness!"  Davray  moved  a  step  forward  aa 
though  he  would  strike.  Brandon  made  no  movement. 
"That's  like  your  damned  cheek.  Who  wants  forgiveness 
as  you  do  ?  Ask  this  Cathedral — ask  it  whether  I  have  not 
loved  it,  adored  it,  worshipped  it  as  I've  worshipped  no 
woman.  Ask  it  whether  I  have  not  been  faithful,  drunkard 
and  sot  as  I  am.  And  ask  it  what  it  thinks  of  you — of 
your  patronage  and  pomposity  and  conceit.  When  have  you 
thought  of  the  Cathedral  and  its  beauty,  and  not  always  of 
yourself  and  your  grandeur  ?  .  .  .  Why,  man,  we're  sick  of 
you,  all  of  us  from  the  top  man  in  the  place  to  the  smallest 
boy.  And  the  Cathedral  is  sick  of  you  and  your  damned 
conceit,  and  is  going  to  get  rid  of  you,  too,  if  you  won't  go 
of  yourself.  And  this  is  the  first  step.  Your  son's  gone  with 
a  whore  to  London,  and  all  the  town's  laughing  at  you." 

Brandon  did  not  flinch.  The  man  was  close  to  him;  ho 
could  smell  his  drunken  breath — but  behind  his  words, 
drunken  though  they  might  be,  was  a  hatred  so  intense,  so 
deep,  so  real,  that  it  was  like  a  fierce  physical  blow.  Hatred 
of  himself.  Ho  had  never  conceived  in  all  his  life  that  any 
one  hated  him — and  this  man  had  hated  him  for  years,  a 
man  to  whom  he  had  never  spoken  before  to-day. 

Davray,  as  was  often  his  manner,  seemed  suddenly  to 
sober.  He  stood  aside  and  spoke  more  quietly,  almost  with- 
out passion. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  2G1 

"I've  been  waiting  for  this  moment  for  years,"  he  said; 
"you  don't  know  how  I've  watched  you  Sunday  after  Sunday 
strutting  about  this  lovely  place,  happy  in  your  own  conceit. 
Your  very  pride  has  been  an  insult  to  the  God  you  pretend 
to  serve.  I  don't  know  whether  there's  a  God  or  no — there 
can't  be,  or  things  wouldn't  happen  as  they  do — but  there  is 
this  place,  alive,  wonderful,  beautiful,  triumphant,  and  you've 
dared  to  put  yourself  above  it.  .  .  . 

"I  could  have  shouted  for  joy  last  night  when  I  heard  what 
your  young  hopeful  had  done.  'That's  right,'  I  said ;  'that'll 
bring  him  down  a  bit.  That'll  teach  him  modesty.'  I  had 
an  extra  drink  on  the  strength  of  it.  I've  been  hanging  about 
all  the  morning  to  get  a  chance  of  speaking  to  you.  I  followed 
you  up  here.  You're  one  of  us  now.  Archdeacon.  You're 
down  on  the  ground  at  last,  but  not  so  low  as  you  will  be 
before  the  Cathedral  has  finished  with  you." 

"Go,"  said  Brandon,  "or,  House  of  God  though  this  is, 
I'll  throw  you  out." 

"I'll  go.  I've  said  my  say  for  the  moment.  But  we'll 
meet  again,  never  fear.  You're  one  of  us  now — one  of  us. 
Good-night." 

He  passed  through  the  door,  and  the  dusky  room  was  still 
again  as  though  no  one  had  been  there.  .  .  . 

There  is  an  old  German  tale,  by  De  la  Motte  Fouque,  I 
fancy,  of  a  young  traveller  who  asks  his  way  to  a  certain 
castle,  his  destination.  He  is  given  his  directions,  and  his 
guide  tells  him  that  the  journey  will  be  easy  enough  until 
he  reaches  a  small  wood  through  which  he  must  pass.  This 
wood  will  be  dark  and  tangled  and  bewildering,  but  more 
sinister  than  those  obstacles  will  be  the  inhabitants  of  it  who, 
evil,  malign,  foul  and  bestial,  devote  their  lives  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  all  travellers  who  endeavour  to  reach  the  castle  on  the 
hill  beyond.  And  the  tale  tells  how  the  young  traveller, 
proud  of  his  youth  and  strength,  confident  in  the  security 
of  his  armour,  nevertheless,  when  he  crosses  the  dark  border 
of  the  wood,  feels  as  though  his  whole  world  has  changed, 


262  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

as  though  everything  in  which  he  formerly  trusted  is  of  no 
value,  as  though  the  very  weapons  that  were  his  chief  defence 
now  made  him  most  defenceless.  He  has  in  the  heart  of  that 
wood  many  perilous  adventures,  but  worst  of  them  all,  when 
he  is  almost  at  the  end  of  his  strength,  is  the  sudden  con- 
viction that  he  has  himself  changed,  and  is  himself  become 
one  of  the  foul,  gibbering,  half-visioned  monsters  by  whom 
he  is  surrounded. 

As  Brandon  left  the  Cathedral  there  was  something  of 
that  strange  sense  with  him,  a  sense  that  had  come  to  him 
first,  perhaps,  in  its  dimmest  and  most  distant  form,  on  the 
day  of  the  circus  and  the  elephant,  and  that  now,  in  all  its 
horrible  vigour  and  confidence,  was  there  close  at  his  elbow. 
He  had  always  held  himself  immaculate ;  he  had  come  down 
to  his  fellow-men,  loving  them,  indeed,  but  feeling  that  they 
were  of  some  other  clay  than  his  o\vn,  and  that  through  no 
especial  virtue  of  his,  but  simply  because  God  has  so  wished 
it.  And  now  he  had  stood,  and  a  drunken  wastrel  had  cursed 
him  and  told  him  that  he  was  detested  by  all  men  and  that 
they  waited  for  his  downfall. 

It  was  those  last  words  of  Davray's  that  rang  in  his  ears : 
"You're  one  of  us  now.  You're  one  of  us."  Drunkard  and 
wastrel  though  the  man  was,  those  words  could  not  be  for- 
gotten, would  never  be  forgotten  again. 

With  his  head  up,  his  shoulders  back,  he  returned  to  his 
house. 

The  maid  met  him  in  the  hall.  "There's  a  man  waiting 
for  you  in  the  study,  sir." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Mr.  Samuel  Hogg,  sir." 

Brandon  looked  at  the  girl  fixedly,  but  not  unkindly. 

"Wliy  did  you  let  him  in,  Gladys?" 

"He  wouldn't  take  no  denial,  sir.  Mrs.  Brandon  was  out 
and  Miss  Joan.  He  said  you  were  expecting  him  and  'e  knew 
vou'd  soon  be  back." 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  263 

"You  should  never  let  any  one  wait,  Gladys,  unless  I  have 
told  you  beforehand." 

"No,  sir." 

"Remember  that  in  future,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.     I'm  sure  I'm  sorry,  sir,  but " 

Brandon  went  into  his  study. 

Hogg  was  standing  beside  the  window,  a  faded  bowler  in 
his  hand.  He  turned  when  he  heard  the  opening  of  the 
door ;  he  presented  to  the  Archdeacon  a  face  of  smiling  and, 
genial,  if  coarsened,  amiability. 

He  was  wearing  rough  country  clothes,  brown  knicker- 
bockers and  gaiters,  and  looked  something  like  a  stout  and 
seedy  gamekeeper  fond  of  the  bottle. 

"I'm  sure  you'll  forgive  this  liberty  I've  taken.  Arch- 
deacon," he  said,  opening  his  mouth  very  wide  as  he  smiled 
— "waiting  for  you  like  this ;  but  the  matter's  a  bit  urgent." 

"Yes  ?"  said  Brandon,  not  moving  from  the  door. 

"I've  come  in  a  friendly  spirit,  although  there  are  men 
who  might  have  come  otherwise.  You  won't  deny  that, 
considering  the  circumstances  of  the  case." 

"I'll  be  grateful  to  you  if  you'll  explain,"  said  Brandon, 
"as  quickly  as  possibly  your  business." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Hogg,  coming  away  from  the 
window.  "Why,  of  course.  Archdeacon.  Now,  whoever 
would  have  thought  that  we,  you  and  me,  would  be  in  the 
same  box  ?  And  that's  putting  it  a  bit  mild  considering  that 
it's  my  daughter  that  your  son  has  run  away  with." 

Brandon  said  nothing,  not,  however,  removing  his  eyes 
from  Hogg's  face. 

Hogg  was  all  amiable  geniality.  "I  know  it  must  be 
against  the  grain.  Archdeacon,  having  to  deal  with  the  likes 
of  me.  You've  always  counted  yourself  a  strike  above  us 
country-folk,  haven't  you,  and  quite  natural  too.  But,  again, 
in  the  course  of  nature  we've  both  of  us  had  children  and 
that,  as  it  turns  out,  is  where  we  finds  our  common  ground, 
so  to  speak — ^you  a  boy  and  me  a  lovely  girl.    Such  a  lovely 


264  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

girl,  Archdeacon,  as  it's  natural  enough  your  son  should  want 
to  run  away  with." 

Brandon  went  across  to  his  writing-table  and  sat  down. 

"Mr.  Hogg,"  he  said,  "it  is  true  that  I  had  a  letter  from 
my  son  this  morning  telling  me  that  he  had  gone  up  to 
London  with  your  daughter  and  was  intending  to  marry 
her  as  soon  as  possible.  You  will  not  expect  that  I  should 
approve  of  that  step.  My  first  impulse  was,  naturally 
enough,  to  go  at  once  to  London  and  to  prevent  his  action  at 
all  costs.  On  thinking  it  over,  however,  I  felt  that  as  h& 
had  run  away  with  the  girl  the  least  that  he  could  now  do 
•was  to  marry  her. 

"I'm  sure  you  will  understand  my  feeling  when  I  say  that 
in  taking  this  step  I  consider  that  he  has  disgraced  himself 
and  his  family.  He  has  cut  himself  off  from  his  family 
irremediably.  I  think  that  really  that  is  all  that  I  have 
to  say." 

Behind  Hogg's  strange  little  half-closed  eyes  some  gleam 
of  anger  and  hatred  passed.  There  was  no  sign  of  it  in  the 
geniality  of  his  open  smile. 

"Why,  certainly.  Archdeacon,  I  can  understand  that  you 
wouldn't  care  for  what  he  has  done.  But  boys  will  be  boys, 
won't  they?  We've  both  been  boys  in  our  time,  I  daresay. 
You've  looked  at  it  from  your  point  of  view,  and  that's 
natural  enough.  But  human  nature's  human  nature,  and 
you  must  forgive  me  if  I  look  at  it  from  mine.  She's  my 
only  girl,  and  a  good  girl  she's  been  to  me,  keepin'  herself  to 
herself  and  doing  her  work  and  helping  me  wonderful.  Well, 
your  young  spark  comes  along,  likes  the  look  of  her  and 
ruins  her.  .  .  ." 

The  Archdeacon  made  some  movement 

"Oh,  you  may  say  what  you  like.  Archdeacon,  and  he  may 
tell  you  what  he  likes,  but  you  and  I  know  what  happens 
when  two  young  things  with  hot  blood  gets  together  and 
there's  nobody  by.  They  may  mean  to  be  straight  enough, 
but  before  they  knows  where  they  are,  nature's  took  hold 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  265 

of  them,  and  there  they  are.  .  .  .  But  even  supposin'  that 
'asn't  happened,  I  don't  know  as  I'm  much  better  off.  That 
girl  was  the  very  prop  of  my  business;  she's  gone,  never  to 
return,  accordin'  to  her  own  account.  As  to  this  marryin' 
business,  that  may  seem  to  you.  Archdeacon,  to  improve 
things,  but  I'm  not  so  sure  that  it  does  after  all.  You  may 
be  all  very  'igh  and  mighty  in  your  way,  but  I'm  thinkin' 
of  myself  and  the  business.  What  good  does  my  girl  marryin' 
your  son  do  to  me  ?    That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Brandon's  hands  were  clenched  upon  the  table.  Nevertho- 
less  he  still  spoke  quietly. 

"I  don't  think,  Mr.  Hogg,"  he  said,  "that  there's  anything 
to  be  gained  by  our  discussing  this  just  now.  I  have  only 
tills  morning  heard  of  it.  You  may  be  assured  that  justice 
will  be  done,  absolute  justice,  to  your  daughter  and  your^ 
eelf." 

Hogg  moved  to  the  door. 

''Why,  certainly.  Archdeacon.  It  is  a  bit  early  to  discuss 
things.  I  daresay  we  shall  be  havin'  many  a  talk  about  it 
all  before  it's  over.  I'm  sure  I  only  want  to  be  friendly 
in  the  matter.  As  I  said  before,  we're  in  the  same  box,  you 
and  me,  so  to  speak.  That  ought  to  make  us  tender  towards 
one  another,  oughtn't  it?  One  losing  his  son  and  the  other 
his  daughter. 

"Such  a  good  girl  as  she  was  too.  Certainly  I'll  be  going, 
Archdeacon;  leave  you  to  think  it  over  a  bit.  I  daresay 
you'll  see  my  point  of  view  in  time." 

"I  think,  Mr.  Hogg,  there's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  your 
coming  here.    You  shall  hear  from  me." 

"Well,  as  to  that.  Archdeacon,"  Hogg  turned  from  the 
hulf-opened  door,  smiling,  "that's  as  may  be.  One  can  get 
further  sometimes  in  a  little  talk  than  in  a  dozen  letters. 
And  I'm  really  not  much  of  a  letter-writer.  But  we'll  see 
'ow  things  go  on.    Good-evenin'." 

The  talk  had  lasted  but  five  minutes,  and  every  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  room,  the  chairs,  the  table,  tho  carpet,  the 


266  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

pictures,  seemed  to  have  upon  it  some  new  stain  of  dis- 
figurement.    Even  the  windows  were  dimmed. 

Brandon  sat  staring  in  front  of  him.  The  door  opened 
again  and  his  wife  came  in. 

"That  was  Samuel  Hogg  who  has  just  left  you  ?'* 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

He  looked  across  the  room  at  her  and  was  instantly  sur- 
prised by  the  strangest  feeling.  He  was  not,  in  his  daily  life, 
conscious  of  "feelings"  of  any  sort — that  was  not  his  way. 
But  the  events  of  the  past  two  days  seemed  to  bring  hira 
suddenly  into  a  new  contact  with  real  life,  as  though,  having 
lived  in  a  balloon  all  this  time,  he  had  been  suddenly  bumped 
out  of  it  with  a  jerk  and  found  Mother  Earth  with  a  terrible 
bang.  He  would  have  told  you  a  week  ago  that  there  was 
nothing  about  his  wife  that  he  did  not  know  and  nothing 
about  his  own  feelings  towards  her — and  yet,  after  all,  the 
most  that  he  had  known  was  to  have  no  especial  feelings 
towards  her  of  any  kind. 

But  to-day  had  been  beyond  possible  question  the  most 
horrible  day  he  had  ever  known,  and  it  might  be  that  the 
very  horror  of  it  was  to  force  him  to  look  upon  everything 
on  earth  with  new  eyes.  It  had  at  least  the  immediate  effect 
now  of  showing  his  wife  to  him  as  part  of  himself,  as  some 
one,  therefore,  hurt  as  he  was,  smirched  and  soiled  and 
abused  as  he,  needing  care  and  kindness  as  he  had  never 
known  her  to  need  it  before.  It  was  a  new  feeling  for  him,  a 
new  tenderness. 

He  greeted  and  welcomed  it  as  a  relief  after  the  horror 
of  Hogg's  presence.  Poor  Amy !  She  was  in  as  bad  a  way 
ajs  he  now — they  were  at  last  in  the  same  box. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  was  Hogg." 

Looking  at  her  now  in  this  new  way,  he  was  also  able  to 
see  that  she  herself  was  changed.  She  figured  definitely  as 
an  actor  now  with  an  odd  white  intensity  in  her  face,  with 
some  mysterious  purpose  in  her  eyes,  with  a  resolve  in  the 
whole  poise  of  her  body  that  seemed  to  add  to  her  height. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  267 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  train  are  you  taking  up  to 
London  ?" 

"What  train?"  he  repeated  after  her. 

"Yes,  to  see  Falk." 

"I  am  not  going  to  see  Falk." 

"You're  not  going  up  to  him?" 

"Why  should  I  go?" 

"Why  should  you  go?  You  can  ask  me  that?  ...  To 
stop  this  terrible  marriage." 

"I  don't  intend  to  stop  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  She  seemed  to  summon  every  nerve 
in  her  body  to  her  control. 

The  twitching  of  her  fingers  against  her  dress  was  her 
only  movement. 

"Would  you  please  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do  ?  After 
all,  I  am  his  mother." 

The  tenderness  that  he  had  felt  at  first  sight  of  her  was 
increasing  so  strangely  that  it  was  all  he  could  do  not  to  go 
over  to  her.  But  his  horror  of  any  demonstration  kept  him 
where  he  was. 

"Amy,  dear,"  he  said,  "I've  had  a  dreadful  day — in  every 
way  a  terrible  day.  I  haven't  had  time,  as  things  have  gone, 
to  think  things  out.  I  want  to  be  fair.  I  want  to  do  the 
right  thing.  I  do  indeed.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  to 
be  gained  by  going  up  to  London.  One  thing  only  now  I'm 
clear  about.  He's  got  to  marry  the  girl  now  he's  gone  off 
with  her.  To  do  him  justice  he  intends  to  do  that.  He 
says  that  he  has  done  her  no  harm,  and  we  must  take  his 
word  for  that.  Falk  has  been  many  things — careless,  reck- 
less, selfish,  but  never  in  all  his  life  dishonourable.  If  I 
went  up  now  we  should  quarrel,  and  perhaps  something 
irreparable  would  occur.  Even  though  he  was  persuaded  to 
return,  the  mischief  is  done.  He  must  be  just  to  the  girl. 
Every  one  in  the  town  knows  by  now  that  she  went  with  him 
— her  father  has  been  busy  proclaiming  the  news  even  though 
there  has  been  no  one  else." 


268  THE  CATHEDRAL 

Mrs.  Brandon  said  nothing.  She  had  made  in  herself 
the  horrible  discovery,  after  reading  Falk's  letter,  that  her 
thoughts  were  not  upon  Falk  at  all,  but  upon  Morris.  Falk 
had  flouted  her ;  not  only  had  he  not  wanted  her,  but  he  had 
gone  off  with  a  common  girl  of  the  town.  She  had  suddenlj 
no  tenderness  for  him,  no  anger  against  him,  no  thought  of 
him  except  that  his  action  had  removed  the  last  link  that 
held  her. 

She  was  gazing  now  at  Morris  with  all  her  eyes.  Her 
brain  was  fastened  upon  him  with  an  intensity  sufficient 
almost  to  draw  him,  hypnotised,  there  to  her  feet.  Her 
husband,  her  home,  Polchester,  these  things  were  like  dim 
shadows. 

"So  you  will  do  nothing?"  she  said. 

"I  must  wait,"  he  said,  "I  know  that  when  I  act  hastilj 
I  act  badly.  .  .  ."  He  paused,  looked  at  her  doubtfully, 
then  with  great  hesitation  went  on:  "We  are  together  in 
this,  Amy.  I've  been — I've  been — thinking  of  myself  and 
my  work  perhaps  too  much  in  the  past.  We've  got  to  aoe 
this  through  together." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "together."  But  she  was  thinking 
of  Morris. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   WIND  FLIES   OVER  THE  HOUSB 

LATER,  that  day,  she  went  from  the  housa  It  was  a 
strange  evening.  Two  different  weathers  seemed  to 
have  met  over  the  Polchester  streets.  First  there  was  the 
deep  serene  beauty  of  the  May  day,  pale  blue  faintly  fading 
into  the  palest  yellow,  the  world  lying  like  an  enchanted 
spirit  asleep  within  a  glass  bell,  reflecting  the  light  from 
the  shining  surface  that  enfolded  it.  In  this  light  houses, 
grass,  cobbles  lay  as  though  stained  by  a  painter's  brush, 
bright  colours  like  the  dazzling  pigment  of  a  wooden  toy, 
glittering  under  the  shining  sky. 

This  was  a  normal  enough  evening  for  the  Polchester 
May,  but  across  it,  shivering  it  into  fragments,  broke  a 
Btormy  and  blustering  wind,  a  wind  that  belonged  to  stormy 
January  days,  cold  and  violent,  with  the  hint  of  rain  in  its 
murmuring  voice.  It  tore  through  the  town,  sometimes 
carrying  hurried  and,  as  it  seemed,  terrified  clouds  with 
it ;  for  a  while  the  May  light  would  be  hidden,  the  air  would 
bo  chill,  a  few  drops  like  flashes  of  glass  would  fall,  gleam- 
ing against  the  bright  colours — then  suddenly  the  sky  would 
be  again  unchallenged  blue,  there  would  be  no  cloud  on  the 
horizon,  only  the  pavements  would  glitter  as  though  reflect- 
ing a  glassy  dome.  Sometimes  it  would  be  more  than  one 
cloud  that  the  wind  would  carry  on  its  track — a  company 
of  clouds;  they  would  appear  suddenly  above  the  horizon, 
like  white-faced  giants  peering  over  the  world's  rim,  then  in 
a  huddled  confusion  they  would  gather  together,  then  start 
their  flight,  separating,  joining,  merging^  dwindling  and  ex- 

269 


270  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

panding,  swallowing  up  the  blue,  threatening  to  encompass 
the  pale  saffron  of  the  lower  sky,  then  vanishing  with  in- 
credible swiftness,  leaving  warmth  and  colour  in  their 
train. 

Amy  Brandon  did  not  see  the  enchanted  town.  She  heard, 
as  she  left  the  house,  the  clocks  striking  half-past  six.  Some 
regular  subconscious  self,  working  with  its  accustomed  daily 
duty,  murmured  to  her  that  to-night  her  husband  was  dining 
at  the  Conservative  Club  and  Joan  was  staying  on  to  supper 
at  the  Sampsons'  after  the  opening  tennis  party  of  the  season. 
No  one  would  need  her — as  so  often  in  the  past  no  one  had 
needed  her.  But  it  was  her  unconscious  self  that  whispered 
this  to  her ;  in  the  wild  stream  into  whose  current  during 
these  last  strange  months  she  had  flung  herself  she  was  carried 
along  she  knew  not,  she  cared  not,  whither. 

Enough  for  her  that  she  was  free  now  to  encompass  her 
desire,  the  only  dominating,  devastating  desire  that  she  had 
ever  known  in  all  her  dead,  well-ordered  life.  But  it  was 
not  even  with  so  active  a  consciousness  as  this  that  she  thought 
this  out.  She  thought  out  nothing  save  that  she  must  see 
Morris,  be  with  Morris,  catch  from  Morris  that  sense  of 
appeasement  from  the  torture  of  hunger  unsatisfied  that 
never  now  left  her. 

In  the  last  weeks  she  had  grown  so  r^ardless  of  the  town's 
opinion  that  she  did  not  care  how  many  people  saw  her  pass 
Morris'  door.  She  had,  perhaps,  been  always  regardless, 
only  in  the  dull  security  of  her  life  there  had  been  no  need 
to  regard  them.  She  despised  them  all;  she  had  always 
despised  them,  for  the  deference  and  admiration  that  they 
paid  her  husband  if  for  no  other  reason.  Despised  them  too, 
it  might  be,  because  they  had  not  seen  more  in  herself,  had 
thought  her  the  dull,  lifeless  nonentity  in  whose  soul  no  firea 
had  ever  burned. 

She  had  never  chattered  nor  gossiped  with  them,  did  not 
consider  gossip  a  factor  in  any  one's  day;  she  had  never 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  271 

had  the  least  curiosity  about  any  one  else,  whether  about  life 
or  character  or  motive. 

There  is  no  ^oist  in  the  world  so  complete  as  the  dis- 
appointed woman  without  imagination. 

She  hurried  through  the  town  as  though  she  were  on  a 
business  of  the  utmost  urgency;  she  saw  nothing  and  she 
heard  nothing.  She  did  not  even  see  Miss  Milton  sitting 
at  her  half-opened  window  enjoying  the  evening  air, 

Morris  himself  opened  the  door.  He  was  surprised  when 
he  saw  her;  when  he  had  closed  the  door  and  helped  her  oif 
with  her  coat  he  said  as  they  walked  into  the  drawing-room : 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  ?" 

She  saw  at  once  that  the  room  was  cheerless  and  deserted. 

"Is  Miss  Burnett  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"No.  She  went  off  to  Rafiel  for  a  week's  holiday.  I'm 
being  looked  after  by  the  cook." 

"It's  cold."  She  drew  her  shoulders  and  arms  together, 
shivering. 

"Yes.  It  is  cold.  It's  these  showers.  Shall  I  light  the 
fire?" 

"Yes,  do." 

He  bent  down,  putting  a  match  to  the  paper;  then  when 
the  fire  blazed  he  pushed  the  sofa  forwards. 

"Now  sit  down  and  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

She  could  see  that  he  was  extremely  nervous. 

"Have  you  heard  nothing?" 

"No." 

She  laughed  bitterly.  "I  thought  all  the  town  knew  by 
this  time." 

"Knew  what?" 

"Falk  has  run  away  to  London  with  the  daughter  of 
Samuel  Hogg." 

"Samuel  Hogg?" 

"Yes,  the  man  of  the  *Dog  and  Pilchard'  down  in 
Seatown." 

"Run  away  with  her?" 


272  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Yesterday.  He  sent  us  a  letter  saying  that  he  had  gone 
up  to  London  to  earn  his  own  living,  had  taken  this  girl 
with  him,  and  would  marry  her  next  week." 

Morris  was  horrified. 

"Without  a  word  of  warning?  Without  speaking  to  you? 
Horrible!  The  daughter  of  that  man.  ...  I  know  some- 
thing about  him  .  .  .  the  worst  man  in  the  place." 

Then  followed  a  long  silence.  The  effect  on  Morris  was 
as  it  had  been  on  Mrs.  Brandon — the  actual  deed  was  almost 
lost  sight  of  in  the  sudden  light  that  it  threw  on  his  passion. 
From  the  very  first  the  most  appealing  element  of  her  at- 
traction to  him  had  been  her  loneliness,  the  neglect  from 
which  she  suffered,  the  need  she  had  of  comfort. 

He  saw  her  as  a  woman  who,  for  twenty  years,  had  had 
no  love,  although  in  her  very  nature  she  had  hungered  for 
it;  and  if  she  had  not  been  treated  with  actual  cruelty,  at 
least  she  had  been  so  basely  neglected  that  cruelty  was  not  far 
away.  It  was  not  tnie  to  say  that  during  these  months  he 
had  grown  to  hato  Brandon,  but  he  had  come,  more  and 
more,  to  despise  and  condemn  him.  The  effeminacy  in  his 
own  nature  had  from  the  first  both  shrunk  from  and  been 
attracted  by  the  masculinity  in  Brandon. 

He  could  have  loved  that  man,  but  as  the  situation  had 
forbidden  that,  his  feeling  now  was  very  near  to  hate. 

Then,  as  the  weeks  had  gone  by,  Mrs.  Brandon  had  made 
it  clear  enough  to  him  tliat  Falk  was  all  that  she  had  left 
to  her — not  very  much  to  her  even  there,  perhaps,  but  some- 
thing to  keep  her  starved  heart  from  dying.  And  now  Falk 
was  gone,  gone  in  the  most  brutal,  callous  way.  She  had 
no  one  in  the  world  left  to  her  but  himself.  The  rush  of 
tenderness  and  longing  to  be  good  to  her  that  now  over- 
whelmed him  was  so  strong  and  so  sudden  that  it  was  with 
the  utmost  difficulty  that  ho  had  held  himself  from  going  to 
the  sofa  beside  her. 

She  looked  so  weak  there,  so  helpless,  so  gentle. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  273 

"Amy,"  he  said,  "I  will  do  anything  in  the  world  that  is 
in  my  power." 

She  was  trembling,  partly  with  genuine  emotion,  partly 
with  cold,  partly  with  the  drama  of  the  situation. 

"Xo,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  to  do  a  thing  that's  going  to 
involve  you.  You  must  be  left  out  of  this.  It  is  something 
that  I  must  carry  through  by  myself.  It  was  wrong  of  me, 
I  suppose,  to  come  to  you,  but  my  first  thought  was  that  I 
must  have  companionship.     I  was  selfish " 

"1^0,"  he  broke  in,  "you  were  not  selfish.  I  am  prouder 
that  you  came  to  me  than  I  can  possibly  say.  That  is  what 
I'm  here  for.  I'm  your  friend.  You  know,  after  all  these 
months,  that  I  am.  And  what  is  a  friend  for?"  Then,  as 
though  he  felt  that  he  was  advancing  too  dangerously  close 
to  emotion,  he  went  on  more  quietly : 

"Tell  me — if  it  isn't  impertinent  of  me  to  ask — what  is 
your  husband  doing  about  it?" 

"Doing?    Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"No.  I  thought  that  he  would  go  up  to  London  and  see 
Palk,  but  he  doesn't  feel  that  that  is  necessary.  He  says 
that,  as  Falk  has  run  away  with  the  girl,  the  most  decent 
thing  that  he  can  do  is  to  marry  her.  He  seems  very  little 
upset  by  it.  He  is  a  most  curious  man.  After  all  these 
years,  I  don't  understand  him  at  all." 

Morris  went  on  hesitatingly.  "I  feel  guilty  myself. 
Weeks  ago  I  overheard  gossip  about  your  son  and  some  girl. 
I  wondered  then  whether  I  ought  to  say  something  to  you. 
But  it's  so  difiicult  in  these  cases  to  know  what  one  ought  to 
do.  There's  so  much  gossip  in  these  little  Cathedral  towns. 
I  thought  about  it  a  good  deal.  Finally,  I  decided  that  it 
wasn't  my  place  to  meddle." 

"I  heard  nothing,"  she  answered.  "It's  always  the  family 
that  hears  the  talk  last.  Perhaps  my  husband's  right. 
Perhaps  there  is  nothing  to  be  dona  I  see  now  that  Falk 
never  cared  anything  for  any  of  us.     I  cheated  myself.     I 


274  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

had  to  cheat  myself,  otherwise  I  don't  know  what  I'd  have 
dona  And  now  his  doing  this  has  made  me  suspicious  of 
everything  and  of  every  one.  Yes,  even  of  a  friendship  like 
ours — the  greatest  thing  in  my  life — now — the  only  thing  in 
my  life." 

Her  voice  trembled  and  dropped.  But  still  he  would  not 
let  himself  pass  on  to  that  other  ground.  "Is  there  nothing 
I  can  do  ?"  he  asked.  "I  suppose  it  would  do  no  good  if  I 
were  to  go  up  to  London  and  see  him?  I  knew  him  a 
little " 

Vehemently  she  shook  her  head. 

"You're  not  to  be  involved  in  this.  At  least  I  can  do  that 
much — keep  you  out  of  it." 

"How  is  he  going  to  live,  then  ?" 

"He  talks  about  writing.  He's  utterly  confident,  of  course. 
He  always  has  been.  Looking  back  now,  I  despise  myself 
for  ever  imagining  that  I  was  of  any  use  to  hinL  I  see  now 
that  he  never  needed  me — never  at  all." 

Suddenly  she  looked  across  at  him  sharply. 

"How  is  your  sister-in-law?"     His  colour  rose. 

"My  sister-in-law  ?" 

"Yes." 

"She  isn't  well." 

"What ?" 

"It's  hard  to  say.  The  doctor  looked  at  her  and  said  she 
needed  quiet  and  must  go  to  the  sea.     It's  her  nerves." 

"Her  nerves?" 

"Yes,  they  got  very  queer.     She's  been  sleeping  badly." 

"You  quarrelled." 

"She  and  I  ?— yes." 

"What  about  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  She's  getting  a  little  too  much  for 
me,  I  think." 

She  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"No,  you  know  it  isn't  that    You  quarrelled  about  me  " 

Ho  said  nothing. 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  2Y6 

"You  quarrelled  about  me,"  slie  repeated.  "She  always 
disliked  me  from  the  beginning." 

"E'o." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  did.  Of  course  I  saw  that.  She  was  jealous 
of  me.  She  saw,  more  quickly  than  any  one  else,  how  much 
— ^how  much  we  were  going  to  mean  to  one  another.  Speak 
the  truth.     You  know  that  is  the  best." 

"She  didn't  understand,"  Morris  answered  slowly.  "She's 
stupid  in  some  things." 

"So  I've  been  the  cause  of  your  quarrelling,  of  your  losing 
the  only  friend  you  had  in  your  life  ?" 

"No,  not  of  my  losing  it.  I  haven't  lost  her.  Our  rela- 
tionship has  shifted,  that's  all." 

"No.  No.  I  know  it  is  so.  I've  taken  away  the  only 
person  near  you." 

And  suddenly  turning  from  him  to  the  back  of  the  sofa, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  broke  into  passionate 
crying. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  taut,  controlled,  as  though  he  was 
fighting  his  last  little  desperate  battle.  Then  he  was  beaten. 
He  knelt  down  on  the  floor  beside  the  sofa.  He  touched  her 
hair,  then  her  cheek.  She  made  a  little  movement  towards 
him.     He  put  his  arms  around  her. 

"Don't  cry.  Don't  cry.  I  can't  bear  that.  You  mustn't 
say  that  you've  taken  anything  from  me.  It  isn't  true. 
You've  given  me  everything  .  .  .  everything.  Why  should 
we  struggle  any  longer?  Why  shouldn't  we  take  what  has 
been  given  to  us?  Your  husband  doesn't  care.  I  haven't 
anybody.  Has  God  given  me  so  much  that  I  should  miss 
this?  And  has  He  put  it  in  our  hearts  if  He  didn't  mean 
us  to  take  it?  I  love  you.  I've  loved  you  since  first  I  set 
eyes  on  you.  I  can't  keep  away  from  you  any  longer.  It's 
keeping  away  from  myself.  We're  one.  We  are  one  another 
— ^not  alone,  either  of  us — any  more.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  towards  him.    He  drew  her  closer  and  closer 


276  THE  CATHEDRA.L 

to  him.     With  a  little  Bigh  of  happiness  and  comfort  she 
yielded  to  him. 

There  was  only  one  cloud  in  the  dim  green  sky,  a  cloud 
orange  and  crimson,  shaped  like  a  ship.  As  the  sun  was 
setting,  a  little  wind  stirred,  the  faint  aftermath  of  the  storm 
of  the  day,  and  the  cloud,  now  all  crimson,  passed  over  the 
town  and  died  in  fading  ribbons  of  gold  and  orange  in  the 
white  sky  of  the  far  horizon. 

Only  Miss  Milton,  perhaps,  among  all  the  citizens  of 
the  to^\Ti,  waiting  patiently  behind  her  open  window,  watched 
its  career. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  QUABEEL 

EVERY  one  has  known,  at  one  time  or  another  in  life, 
that  strange  unexpected  calm  that  always  falls  like 
sudden  snow  on  a  storm-tossed  country,  after  some  great 
crisis  or  upheaval.  The  blow  has  seemed  so  catastrophic  that 
the  world  must  be  changed  with  the  force  of  its  fall — but  the 
world  18  not  changed;  hours  pass  and  days  go  by,  and  no 
one  seems  to  be  aware  that  anything  has  occurred  ...  it  is 
only  when  months  have  gone,  and  perhaps  years,  that  one 
looks  back  and  sees  that  it  was,  after  all,  on  such  and  such 
a  day  that  life  was  altered,  values  shifted,  the  face  of  the 
world  turned  to  a  new  angle. 

This  is  platitudinous,  but  platitudes  are  not  platitudes 
when  we  first  make  our  personal  experience  of  them.  There 
seemed  nothing  platitudinous  to  Brandon  in  his  present 
experiences.  The  day  on  which  he  had  received  Falk's  letter 
had  seemed  to  fling  him  neck  and  crop  into  a  new  world — 
a  world  dim  and  obscure  and  peopled  with  new  and  terrify- 
ing devils.  The  morning  after,  he  was  clear  again,  and  it 
was  almost  as  though  nothing  at  all  had  occurred.  He  went 
about  the  town,  and  everybody  behaved  in  a  normal  manner. 
Ko  sign  of  those  strange  menacing  figures,  the  drunken 
painter,  the  sinister,  smiling  Hogg;  every  one  as  usual. 

Ryle  complacent  and  obedient;  Bentinck-Major  officious 
but  subservient ;  Mrs.  Combermere  jolly ;  even,  as  he  fancied, 
Foster  a  little  more  amiable  than  usual.  It  was  for  this  open, 
outside  world  that  he  had  now  for  many  years  been  living; 
it  was  not  difficult  to  tell  himself  that  things  here  were  un- 

277 


278  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

changed.  Because  he  was  no  psychologist,  he  took  people 
as  he  found  them;  when  they  smiled  they  were  pleased  and 
when  they  frowned  they  were  angry. 

Because  there  was  a  great  deal  of  pressing  business  he 
pushed  aside  Falk's  problem.  It  was  there,  it  was  waiting 
for  him,  but  perhaps  time  would  solve  it 

He  concentrated  himself  with  a  new  energy,  a  new  self- 
confidence,  upon  the  Cathedral,  the  Jubilee,  the  public  life 
of  the  town. 

x^evertheless,  that  horrible  day  had  had  its  effect  upon 
him.  Three  days  after  Falk's  escape  he  was  having  break- 
fast alone  with  Joan. 

"Mother  has  a  headache,"  Joan  said.  "She's  not  coming 
down." 

He  nodded,  scarcely  looking  up  from  his  paper. 

In  a  little  while  she  said :  "What  are  you  doing  to-day, 
daddy  ?  I'm  very  sorry  to  bother  you,  but  I'm  housekeeping 
to-day,  and  I  have  to  arrange  about  meals " 

"I'm  lunching  at  Carpledon,"  he  said,  putting  his  paper 
down. 

"With  the  Bishop  ?  How  nice  I  I  wish  I  were.  He's  an 
old  dear." 

"He  wants  to  consult  mo  about  some  of  the  Jubilee 
services,"  Brandon  said  in  his  public  voice. 

^'Won't  Canon  Ryle  mind  that?" 

"I  don't  care  if  he  does.  It's  his  own  fault,  for  not 
managing  things  better." 

"I  think  the  Bishop  must  be  very  lonely  out  there.  He 
hardly  ever  comes  into  Polchester  now.  It's  because  of  his 
rheumatism,  I  suppose.    Why  doesn't  he  resign,  daddy  ?" 

"He's  wanted  to,  a  number  of  times.  But  he's  very 
popular.     People  don't  want  him  to  go." 

"I  don't  wonder."  Joan's  eyes  sparkled.  ^'Even  if  one 
never  saw  him  at  all  it  would  bo  better  than  somebody  else. 
He's  such  an  old  darling." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  myself  in  men  going  on  when  they're 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  279 

past  their  work.  However,  I  hear  he's  going  to  insist  on 
resigning  at  the  end  of  this  year." 

"How  old  is  he,  daddy?" 

"Eighty-seven." 

There  was  always  a  tinge  of  patronage  in  the  Archdeacon's 
voice  when  he  spoke  of  his  Bishop.  He  knew  that  he  was 
a  saint,  a  man  whose  life  had  been  of  so  absolute  a  purity, 
a  simplicity,  an  unfaltering  faith  and  courage,  that  there 
were  no  flaws  to  be  found  in  him  anywhere.  It  was  possibly 
this  very  simplicity  that  stirred  Brandon's  patronage. 
After  all,  we  were  living  in  a  workaday  world,  and  the 
Bishop's  confidence  in  every  man's  word  and  trust  in  every 
man's  honour  had  been  at  times  a  little  ludicrous.  Never- 
theless, did  any  one  dare  to  attack  the  Bishop,  he  was  im- 
mediately his  most  ardent  and  ferocious  defender. 

It  was  only  when  the  Bishop  was  praised  that  he  felt 
that  a  word  or  two  of  caution  was  necessary. 

However,  he  was  just  now  not  thinking  of  the  Bishop; 
he  was  thinking  of  his  daughter.  As  he  looked  across  the 
table  at  her  he  wondered.  What  had  Falk's  betrayal  of  the 
family  meant  to  her  ?  Had  she  been  fond  of  him  ?  She  had 
given  no  sign  at  all  as  to  how  it  had  affected  her.  She  had 
her  friends  and  her  life  in  the  town,  and  her  family  pride 
like  the  rest  of  them.  How  pretty  she  looked  this  morning ! 
He  was  suddenly  aware  of  the  love  and  devotion  that  she  had 
given  him  for  years  and  the  small  return  that  he  had  made. 
Not  that  he  had  been  a  bad  father — he  hurriedly  reassured 
himself ;  no  one  could  accuse  him  of  that.  But  he  had  been 
busy,  preoccupied,  had  not  noticed  her  as  he  might  have 
done.  She  was  a  woman  now,  with  a  new  independence  and 
self-assurance!  And  yet  such  a  child  at  the  same  time! 
He  recalled  the  evening  in  the  cab  when  she  had  held  his 
hand.  How  few  demands  she  ever  made  upon  him;  how 
little  she  was  ever  in  the  way  I 

He  went  back  to  his  paper,  but  found  that  he  could  not 
fix  his  attention  upon  it     When  he  had  finished  his  break- 


280  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

fast  he  went  across  to  her.  She  looked  up  at  him,  smiling. 
He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Um — ^es.  .  .  .  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  to-day, 
dear?" 

"I've  heaps  to  do.  There's  the  Jubilee  work-party  in  the 
morning.  Then  there  are  one  or  two  things  in  the  town  to 
get  for  mother."    She  paused. 

Ho  hesitated,  then  said: 

"Has  any  one — have  your  friends  in  the  town — said  any- 
thing about  Falk  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"No,  daddy — not  a  word,'* 

Then  she  added,  as  though  to  herself,  with  a  little  sigh, 
"Poor  Falkl" 

He  took  his  hand  from  her  shoulder. 

"So  you're  sorry  for  him,  are  you  ?"  he  said  angrily. 

"Not  sorry,  exactly,"  she  answered  slowly.  "But — ^you 
will  forgive  him,  won't  you  ?" 

"You  can  be  sure,"  Brandon  said,  "that  I  shall  do  what  is 
right." 

She  sprang  up  and  faced  hina. 

"Daddy,  now  that  Falk  is  gone,  it's  more  necessary  than 
ever  for  you  to  realise  me." 

"Realise  you  ?"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"Yes,  that  I'm  a  woman  now  and  not  a  child  any  longer. 
You  don't  realise  it  a  bit.  I  said  it  to  mother  months  ago, 
and  told  her  that  now  I  could  do  all  sorts  of  things  for  her. 
She  has  lot  me  do  a  few  things,  but  she  hasn't  changed  to 
me,  not  been  any  different,  or  wanted  mo  any  more  than 
she  did  befora  But  you  must  You  mustj  daddy.  I  can 
help  you  in  lots  of  ways.     I  can " 

"What  ways?"  he  asked  her,  smiling. 

"I  don't  know.  You  must  find  them  out  What  I  mean 
is  that  you've  got  to  count  on  me  as  an  element  in  the  family 
now.     You  can't  disregard  me  any  more." 

"Have  I  disregarded  you  ?" 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  281 

"Of  course  you  have,"  she  answered,  laughing. 

**Well,  we'll  see,"  he  said.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her, 
then  left  the  room. 

He  left  to  catch  the  train  to  Carpledon  in  a  self-satisfied 
mind.  He  was  tired,  certainly,  and  had  felt  ever  since  the 
shock  of  three  days  back  a  certain  "warning"  sensation  that 
hovered  over  him  rather  like  hot  air,  suggesting  that  sudden 
agonizing  pain  .  .  .  but  so  long  as  the  pain  did  not  come 
.  .  .  He  had  thought,  half  derisively,  of  seeing  old  Puddi- 
foot,  even  of  having  himself  overhauled — but  Puddifoot  was 
an  ass.  How  could  a  man  who  talked  the  nonsense  Puddifoot 
did  in  the  Conservative  Club  be  anything  of  a  doctor  ?  Be- 
sides, the  man  was  old.  There  was  a  young  man  now,  New- 
ton.   But  Brandon  distrusted  young  men. 

He  was  amused  and  pleased  at  the  station.  He  strode  up 
and  down  the  platform,  his  hands  behind  his  broad  back,  his 
head  up,  his  top-hat  shining,  his  gaiters  fitting  superbly  his 
splendid  calves.  The  station-master  touched  his  hat,  smiled, 
and  stayed  for  a  word  or  two.  Very  deferential.  Good 
fellow,  Curtis.  Knew  his  business.  The  little,  stout,  rosy- 
faced  fellow  who  guarded  the  book-stall  touched  his  hat. 
Brandon  stopped  and  looked  at  the  papers.  Advertisements 
already  of  special  Jubilee  supplements — "Life  of  the  Good 
Queen,"  "History  of  the  Empire,  1837-1897."  Piles  of  that 
trashy  novel  Joan  had  been  talking  about,  The  Massarenes, 
by  Ouida.  Pah !  Stuff  and  nonsense.  How  did  people  have 
time  for  such  things  ?  "Yes,  Mr.  Waller.  Fine  day.  Very 
fine  May  we're  having.  Ought  to  be  fine  for  the  Jubilee. 
Hope  so,  I'm  sure.  Disappoint  many  people  if  it's 
wet.  .  .  ." 

He  bought  the  Church  Times  and  crossed  to  the  side-lina 
No  one  here  but  a  farmer,  a  country-woman  and  her  little 
boy.  The  farmer's  side-face  reminded  him  suddenly  of  some 
one.  Who  was  it?  That  fat  cheek,  the  faint  sandy  hair 
beneath  the  shabby  bowler.  He  was  struck  as  though,  stand- 
ing on  a  tight-rope  in  mid-air,  he  felt  it  quiver  beneath  him. 


282  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Hogg.  .  .  .  He  turned  abruptly  and  faced  the  empty  line 
and  the  dusty  neglected  boarding  of  a  railway-shed.  He  must 
not  think  of  that  man,  must  not  allow  him  to  seize  his 
thoughts.  Hogg — Da\Tay.  Had  he  dreamt  that  horrible 
scene  in  the  Cathedral  ?  Could  that  have  been  ?  He  lifted 
his  hand  and,  as  it  were,  tore  the  scene  into  pieces  and 
scattered  it  on  the  line.  He  had  command  of  his  thoughts, 
shutting  down  one  little  tight  shutter  after  another  upon  the 
things  he  did  not  want  to  see.  That  he  did  not  want  to  see, 
did  not  want  to  know. 

The  little  train  drew  in,  slowly,  regretfully.  Brandon  got 
into  the  solitary  first-class  carriage  and  buried  himself  in  his 
paper.  Soon,  thanks  to  his  happy  gift  of  attending  only  to 
one  question  at  a  time,  tlie  subjects  that  that  paper  brought  up 
for  discussion  completely  absorbed  him.  Anything  more 
absurd  than  such  an  argument! — as  though  the  validity  of 
Baptism  did  not  absolutely  depend  .  .  . 

He  was  happily  lost;  the  little  train  steamed  out.  He  saw 
nothing  of  the  beautiful  country  through  which  they  passed — 
country,  on  this  May  morning,  so  beautiful  in  its  rich  luxu- 
riant security,  the  fields  bending  and  dipping  to  the  tree- 
haunted  streams,  the  hedges  running  in  lines  of  blue  and  dark 
purple  like  ribbons  to  the  sky,  that,  blue-flecked,  caught  in 
light  and  shadow  a  myriad  pattern  as  a  complement  to  its  own 
sun-warmed  clouds.  Rich  and  English  so  utterly  that  it  was 
almost  scornful  in  its  resentment  of  foreign  interference.  In 
spite  of  the  clouds  the  air  was  now  in  its  mid-day  splendour, 
and  the  cows,  in  clusters  of  brown,  dark  and  clay-red,  sought 
the  cool  grey  shadows  of  the  hedges. 

The  peace  of  centuries  lay  upon  this  land,  and  the  sun  with 
loving  hands  caressed  its  warm  flanks  as  though  here,  at  least, 
was  some  one  of  whom  it  might  be  sure,  some  one  known  from 
old  time. 

The  little  station  at  Carpledon  was  merely  a  wooden  shed. 
Woods  running  down  the  hill  threatened  to  overwhelm  it;  at 
its  very  edge  beyond  the  line,  thick  green  fields  slipped  to  the 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  283 

shining  level  waters  of  the  Pol.  Brandon  walked  up  the  hill 
through  the  wood,  past  the  hedge  and  on  through  the  Park 
to  the  Palace  drive.  The  sight  of  that  old,  red,  thick-set 
building  with  its  square  comfortable  windows,  its  bell-tower, 
its  dovecots,  its  graceful,  stolid,  happy  lines,  its  high  old  door- 
way, its  tiled  roof  rosy-red  with  age,  respectability  and  com- 
fort, its  square  solemn  chimneys  behind  and  between  whose 
self-possession  the  broad  branches  of  the  oaks,  older  and  wiser 
than  the  house  itself,  uplifted  their  clustered  leaves  with  the 
protection  of  their  conscious  dignity — this  house  thrilled  all 
that  was  deepest  and  most  superstitious  in  his  soul. 

To  this  building  he  would  bow,  to  this  house  surrender. 
Here  was  something  that  would  command  all  his  reverence,  a 
worthy  adjunct  to  the  Cathedral  that  he  loved ;  without  undue 
pride  he  must  acknowledge  to  himself  that,  had  fate  so  willed 
it,  he  would  himself  have  occupied  this  place  with  a  worthy 
and  fitting  appropriateness.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  he  pulled 
the  iron  bell  and  heard  its  clang  deep  within  the  house,  that 
he  understood  what  it  needed  so  well  that  it  must  sigh  with  a 
dignified  relief  when  it  saw  him  approach. 

Appleford  the  butler,  who  opened  the  door,  was  an  old 
friend  of  his — an  aged,  white-locked  man,  but  dignity  itself. 

"His  lordship  will  be  down  in  a  moment,"  he  said,  showing 
him  into  the  library.  Some  one  else  was  there,  his  back  to 
the  door.    He  turned  round ;  it  was  Render. 

When  Brandon  saw  him  he  had  again  that  sense  that  came 
now  to  him  so  frequently,  that  some  plot  was  in  process 
against  him  and  gradually,  step  by  step,  hedging  him  in. 
That  is  a  dangerous  sense  for  any  human  being  to  acquire, 
but  most  especially  for  a  man  of  Brandon's  simplicity, 
almost  naivete  of  character. 

Render !  The  very  last  man  whom  Brandon  could  bear  to 
see  in  that  place  and  at  that  time!  Brandon's  visit  to-day 
was  not  entirely  imengineered.  To  be  honest,  he  had  not 
spoken  quite  the  truth  to  his  daughter  when  he  had  said  that 
the  Bishop  had  asked  him  out  there  for  consultation.    Him- 


284  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

self  had  written  to  the  Bishop  a  very  strong  letter,  empha- 
sising the  inadequacy  with  which  his  Jubilee  services  were 
being  prepared,  saying  something  about  the  suitability  of 
Forsyth  for  the  Pybus  living,  and  hinting  at  certain  careless- 
nesses in  the  Chapter  "due  to  new  and  regrettable  influences." 
It  was  in  answer  to  this  letter  that  Pouting,  the  Resident 
Chaplain,  had  written  saying  that  the  Bishop  would  like  to 
give  Brandon  luncheon.  It  may  be  said,  therefore,  that 
Brandon  wished  fo  consult  the  Bishop  rather  than  the  Bishop 
Brandon.  The  Archdeacon  had  pictured  to  himself  a  cosy 
tete-a-tete  with  the  Bishop  lasting  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
entirely  uninterrupted.  He  flattered  himself  that  he  knew 
his  dear  Bishop  well  enough  by  this  time  to  deal  with  him 
exactly  as  he  ought  to  be  dealt  with.  But,  for  that  dealing, 
privacy  was  absolutely  essential.  Any  third  person  would 
have  been,  to  the  last  extent,  provoking.  Render  was  disas- 
trous. He  instantly  persuaded  himself,  as  he  looked  at  that 
rubicund  and  smiling  figure,  that  Ronder  had  heard  of  hia 
visit  and  determined  to  be  one  of  the  party.  He  could  only 
have  heard  of  it  through  Pouting.  .  .  .  The  Archdeacon's 
fingers  twisted  within  one  another  as  he  considered  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  wring  Routing's  long,  white  and 
ecclesiastical  neck. 

And,  of  course,  behind  all  this  immediate  situation  was  his 
sense  of  the  pleasure  and  satisfaction  that  Ronder  must  be 
feeling  about  Folk's  scandal.  Licking  his  thick  red  lips 
about  it,  he  must  be,  watching  with  his  little  fat  eyes  for  the 
moment  when,  with  his  round  fat  fingers,  he  might  probe  that 
wound. 

Nevertheless  the  Archdeacon  knew,  by  this  time.  Render's 
character  and  abilities  too  well  not  to  realise  that  he  must 
dissemble.  Dissembling  was  the  hardest  thing  of  all  that  a 
man  of  the  Archdeacon's  character  could  be  called  upon  to 
perform,  but  dissemble  he  must 

His  smile  was  of  a  grim  kind. 

"Hal  Ronder;  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here." 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLERY  285 

"!tTo,"  said  Render,  coining  forward  and  smiling  with  the 
utmost  geniality.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  expect 
to  find  myself  here.  It  was  only  last  evening  that  I  got  a 
note  from  the  Bishop  asking  me  to  come  out  to  luncheon 
to-day.    He  said  that  you  would  be  here." 

Oh,  so  Pouting  was  not  to  blame.  It  was  the  Bishop  him- 
self. Poor  old  man !  Cowardice  obviously,  afraid  of  some 
of  the  home-truths  that  Brandon  might  find  it  his  duty  to 
deliver.     A  coward  in  his  old  age.  .  .  . 

"Very  fine  day,"  said  Brandon. 

"Beautiful,"  said  Render.  "Really,  looks  as  though  we 
are  going  to  have  good  weather  for  the  Jubilee." 

"Hope  we  do,"  said  Brandon.  "Very  hard  on  thousands 
of  people  if  it's  wet." 

"Very,"  said  Render.     "I  hope  Mrs.  Brandon  is  well." 

"To-day  she  has  a  little  headache,"  said  Brandon.  "But 
it's  really  nothing." 

"Well,"  said  Render.  "I've  been  wondering  whether 
there  isn't  some  thunder  in  the  air.  I've  been  feeling  it 
oppressive  myself." 

"It  does  get  oppressive,"  said  Brandon,  "this  time  of  the 
year  in  Glebeshire — especially  South  Glebeshire.  I've  often 
noticed  it." 

"What  we  want,"  said  Render,  "is  a  good  thunderstorm  to 
clear  the  air." 

"Just  what  we're  not  likely  to  get,"  said  Brandon.  "It 
hangs  on  for  days  and  days  without  breaking." 

"I  wonder  why  that  is,"  said  Render;  "there  are  no  hills 
round  about  to  keep  it  There's  hardly  a  hill  of  any  si2;e  in 
the  whole  of  South  Glebeshire." 

"Of  course,  Polchester's  in  a  hollow,"  said  Brandon. 
"Except  for  the  Cathedral,  of  course.  I  always  envy  Lady 
St.  Leath  her  elevation." 

"A  fine  site,  the  Castle,"  said  Render.  "They  must  get  a 
continual  breeze  up  there." 


286  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"They  do,"  said  Brandoii.  "Whenever  I'm  up  there  there's 
a  wind." 

This  moat  edifying  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  the  Reverend  Charles  Pouting.  Mr.  Pouting  was 
very  long,  very  thin  and  very  black,  his  cadaverous  cheeks 
resembling  in  thoir  colour  nothing  so  much  as  good  fountain- 
pen  ink.  He  spoke  always  in  a  high,  melancholy  and  chant- 
ing voi(;e.  He  was  undoubtedly  effeminate  in  his  movements, 
and  he  had  an  air  of  superior  secrecy  about  the  affairs  of  the 
Bishop  that  people  sometimes  found  very  trying.  But  he  was 
a  good  man  and  a  zealous,  and  entirely  devoted  to  his  lord 
and  master. 

"Ha!  Archdeacon.  .  .  .  Ha!  Canon.  His  lordship  will 
be  down  in  one  moment  He  has  asked  me  to  make  his 
apologies  for  not  being  here  to  receive  you.  He  is  just  finish- 
ing something  of  rather  especial  importance." 

The  Bishop,  however,  entered  a  moment  later.  He  was  a 
little,  frail  man,  walking  with  the  aid  of  a  stick.  He  had 
snow-white  hair,  rather  thick  and  long,  pale  cheeks  and  eyes 
of  a  bright  china-blue.  He  had  that  quality,  given  to  only  a 
few  in  this  world  of  happy  mediocrities,  of  filling,  at  once, 
any  room  into  which  he  entered  with  the  strength  and  fra- 
grance of  his  spirit.  So  strong,  fearless  and  beautiful  was 
his  soul  that  it  shone  through  the  frail  compass  of  his  body 
with  an  unfaltering  light.  No  one  had  ever  doubted  the 
goodness  and  splendour  of  the  man's  character.  Men  might 
call  his  body  old  and  feeble  and  past  the  work  that  it  was  still 
called  upon  to  perform.  They  might  speak  of  him  as  guile- 
less, as  too  innocent  of  this  world's  slippery  ways,  as  trusting 
where  no  child  of  six  years  of  age  would  have  trusted ;  these 
things  might  have  been,  and  were,  said,  but  no  man,  woman, 
nor  child,  looking  upon  him,  hesitated  to  realise  that  here  was 
some  one  who  had  walked  and  talked  with  God  and  in  whom 
there  was  no  shadow  of  deceit  nor  evil  thought  Old  Glasgow 
Parraiter,  the  lawyer,  the  wickedest  old  man  Polchester  had 
ever  known,  said  once  of  him,  "If  there's  a  hell,  I  suppose 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  287 

I'm  going  to  it,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  care.  There  may  be  one 
and  there  may  not  I  know  there's  a  heaven.  Purcell  Uvea 
there." 

His  voice,  which  was  soft  and  strong,  had  at  its  heart  a  tiny 
stammer  which  came  out  now  and  then  with  a  hesitating, 
almost  childish,  charm.  As  he  stood  there,  leaning  on  his 
stick,  smiling  at  them,  there  did  seem  a  great  deal  of  the 
child  about  him,  and  Brandon,  Ponting  and  Ronder  suddenly 
seemed  old,  wicked  and  soiled  in  the  world's  ways. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  said,  "for  not  being  down  when 
you  came.  I  move  slowly  now.  .  .  .  Luncheon  is  ready,  I 
know.    Shall  we  go  in  ?" 

The  four  men  crossed  the  stone-flagged  hall  into  the  dining- 
room  where  Appleford  stood,  devoutly,  as  one  about  to  per- 
form a  solemn  rite.  The  dining-room  was  high-ceilinged  with 
a  fireplace  of  old  red  brick  fronted  with  black  oak  beams. 
The  walls  were  plain  whitewash,  and  they  carried  only  ono 
picture,  a  large  copy  of  Diirer's  "Knight  and  the  Devil." 
The  high,  broad  windows  looked  out  on  to  the  sloping  lawn 
whose  green  now  danced  and  sparkled  under  the  sun.  The 
trees  that  closed  it  in  were  purple  shadowed. 

They  sat,  clustered  together,  at  the  end  of  a  long  oak 
refectory  table.  The  Bishop  himself  was  a  teetotaler,  but 
there  was  good  claret  and,  at  the  end,  excellent  port.  The 
only  piece  of  colour  on  the  table  was  a  bowl  of  dark-blue  glass 
piled  with  fruit.  The  only  ornament  in  the  room  was  a 
beautifully  carved  silver  crucifix  on  the  black  oak  mantel- 
piece. The  sun  danced  across  the  stained  floor  with  every 
pattern  and  form  of  light. 

Brandon  could  not  remember  a  more  unpleasant  meal  in 
that  room;  he  could  not,  indeed,  remember  ever  having  had 
an  unpleasant  meal  there  before.  The  Bishop  talked,  as  he 
always  did,  in  a  most  pleasant  and  easy  fashion.  He  talked 
about  the  nectarines  and  plums  that  were  soon  to  glorify 
his  garden  walls,  about  the  pears  and  apples  in  his  orchard, 
about  the  jokes  that  old  Puddifoot  made  when  he  came  over 


288  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

and  examined  his  rheumatic  limbs.  He  gently  chaffed  Pont- 
ing  about  his  punctuality,  neatness  and  general  dislike  of 
violent  noises,  and  he  bade  Appleford  to  tell  the  house- 
keeper, Mrs.  Brenton,  how  especially  good  to-day  was  the 
fish  souffle.  All  this  was  all  it  had  ever  been ;  nothing  could 
have  been  easier  and  more  happy.  But  on  other  days  it  had 
always  been  Brandon  who  had  thrown  back  the  ball  for  the 
Bishop  to  catch.  Whoever  the  other  guest  might  be,  it  was 
always  Brandon  who  took  the  lead,  and  although  he  might 
be  a  little  ponderous  and  slow  in  movement,  he  supplied  the 
Bishop's  conversational  needs  quite  adequately. 

And  to-day  it  was  Render;  from  the  first,  without  any 
ostentation  or  presumption,  with  the  utmost  naturalness,  he 
led  the  field.  To  understand  the  full  truth  of  this  occasion 
it  must  be  known  that  !Mr.  Pouting  had,  for  a  considerable 
number  of  years  past,  cherished  a  deep  but  private  detesta- 
tion of  the  Archdeacon.  It  was  hard  to  say  wherein  that 
hatred  had  had  it  inception — probably  in  some  old,  long- 
forgotten  piece  of  cheerful  patronage  on  Brandon's  part; 
Mr.  Pouting  was  of  those  who  consider  and  dwell  and  dwell 
again,  and  he  had,  by  this  time,  dwelt  upon  the  Archdeacon 
BO  long  and  so  thoroughly  that  he  knew  and  resented  the 
colour  of  every  one  of  the  Archdeacon's  waistcoat  buttons. 
He  was,  perhaps,  quick  to  perceive  to-day  that  a  mightier  than 
the  Archdeacon  was  here;  or  it  may  have  been  that  he  was 
well  aware  of  what  had  been  happening  in  Polchester  during 
the  last  weeks,  and  was  even  informed  of  the  incidents  of 
the  last  three  days. 

However  that  may  be,  he  did  from  the  first  pay  an  almost 
exaggerated  deference  to  Render's  opinion,  drew  him  into 
the  conversation  at  every  possible  opportunity,  with  such 
interjections  as  "How  true!  How  very  true!  Don't  you 
think  80,  Canon  Render?"  or  "What  has  been  your  experi- 
ence in  such  a  case,  Canon  Render?"  or  "I  think,  my  lord, 
that  Canon  Ronder  told  me  that  he  knows  that  place  well," 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLERY  289 

and  disregarding  entirely  any  remarks  that  Brandon  might 
happen  to  make. 

No  one  could  have  responded  more  brilliantly  to  this 
opportunity  than  did  Ronder;  indeed  the  Bishop,  who  was 
his  host  at  the  Palace  to-day  for  the  first  time,  said  after  his 
departure,  "That's  a  most  able  man,  most  able.  Lucky 
indeed  for  the  diocese  that  it  has  secured  him  ...  a  delight- 
ful fellow." 

iSTo  one  in  the  world  could  have  been  richer  in  anecdotes 
than  Ronder,  anecdotes  of  precisely  the  kind  for  the  Bishop's 
taste,  not  too  worldly,  not  too  clerical,  amusing  without  being 
broad,  light  and  airy,  but  showing  often  a  fine  scholarship 
and  a  wise  and  thoughtful  experience  of  foreign  countries. 
The  Bishop  had  not  laughed  so  heartily  for  many  a  day. 
"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  he  cried  at  the  anecdote  of  the  two 
American  ladies  in  Siena.  "That's  good,  indeed  .  .  .  that's 
very  good.  Did  you  get  that.  Pouting?  Dear  me,  that's 
perfectly  delightful!"  A  little  tear  of  shining  pleasure 
trickled  down  his  cheek.  "Really,  Canon,  I've  never  heard 
anything  better." 

Brandon  thought  Bonder's  manners  outrageous.  Poor 
Bishop !  He  was  indeed  failing  that  he  could  laugh  so  heart- 
ily at  such  pitiful  humour.  He  tried  to  show  his  sense  of  it 
all  by  grimly  pursuing  his  food  and  refusing  even  the  ghost 
of  a  chuckle,  but  no  one  was  perceiving  him,  as  he  very 
bitterly  saw.  The  Bishop,  it  may  be,  saw  it  too,  for  at  last 
he  turned  to  Brandon  and  said : 

"But  come,  Archdeacon.  I  was  forgetting.  You  wrote  to 
me  s-something  about  that  Jubilee-music  in  the  Cathedral. 
You  find  that  Ryle  is  making  rather  a  m-mess  of  things, 
don't  you  ?" 

Brandon  was  deeply  offended.  Of  what  was  the  Bishop 
thinking  that  he  could  so  idly  drag  forward  the  substance 
of  an  entirely  private  letter,  without  asking  permission,  into 
the  public  air  ?  Moreover,  the  last  thing  that  he  wanted  was 
that  Ronder  should  know  that  he  had  been  working  behind 


290  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Rjle's  back-  Not  that  he  was  in  the  least  ashamed  of  what 
he  had  done,  but  here  was  precisely  the  thing  that  Render 
would  like  to  use  and  make  something  of.  In  any  case,  it  was 
the  principle  of  the  thing.  Was  Render  henceforth  to  be 
privy  to  everything  that  passed  between  himself  and  the 
Bishop  ? 

He  never  found  it  easy  to  veil  his  feelings,  and  he  looked 
now,  as  Renting  delightedly  perceived,  like  an  overgrown, 
sulky  schoolboy. 

"No,  no,  my  lord,"  he  said,  looking  across  at  Pouting,  as 
though  he  would  love  to  set  his  heel  upon  that  pale  but  eager 
visage.  "You  have  me  wrong  there.  I  was  making  no  com- 
plaint   The  Precentor  knows  his  own  business  best." 

"You  certainly  said  something  in  your  letter,"  said  the 
Bishop  vaguely.  "There  was  s-something.  Pouting,  was 
there  not?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Pouting.  "There  was.  But  I  expect 
the  Archdeacon  did  not  mean  it  very  seriously." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  find  the  Precentor  inefficient?" 
said  the  Bishop,  looking  at  the  coffee  with  longing  and  then 
shaking  his  head.  "Not  to-day,  Appleford,  alas — not  to- 
day." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Brandon,  colouring.  "Of  course  not.  Our 
tastes  differ  a  little  as  to  the  choice  of  music,  that's  all.  I've 
no  doubt  that  I  am  old-fashioned." 

"How  do  you  find  the  Cathedral  music,  Canon  ?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  lender. 

"Oh,  I  know  very  little  about  it,"  said  Render,  smiling. 
"Nothing  in  comparison  with  the  Archdeacon.  I'm  sure  he's 
right  in  liking  the  old  music  that  people  have  grown  used  to 
and  are  fond  of.  At  the  same  time,  I  must  confess  that  1 
haven't  thought  Ryle  too  venturesome.  But  then  I'm  very 
ignorant,  having  been  here  so  short  a  time." 

"That's  right,  then,"  said  the  Bishop  comfortably.  "There 
doesn't  seem  much  wrong." 

At  that  moment  Appleford,  who  had  been  absent  from  the 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  291 

room  for  a  minute,  returned  with  a  note  which  ho  gave  to 
the  Bishop. 

"From  Pybus,  my  lord,"  he  said;  "some  one  has  ridden, 
over  with  it." 

At  the  word  "Pybus"  there  was  an  electric  silence  in  the 
room.  The  Bishop  tore  open  the  letter  and  read  it.  He  half 
started  from  his  chair  with  a  little  exclamation  of  distress 
and  grief. 

"Please  excuse  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  them.  *T.  must 
leave  you  for  a  moment  and  speak  to  the  bearer  of  this  note. 
Poor  Morrison  ...  at  last  .  .  .  he's  gone ! — Pybus !  .  .  ." 

The  Archdeacon,  in  spite  of  himself,  half  rose  and  stared 
across  at  Render.     Pybus!     The  living  at  last  was  vacant. 

A  moment  later  he  felt  deeply  ashamed.  In  that  sunlit 
room  the  bright  green  of  the  outside  world  quivering  in  pools 
of  colour  upon  the  pure  space  of  the  white  walls  spoke  of  life 
and  beauty  and  the  immortality  of  beauty. 

It  was  hard  to  think  of  death  there  in  such  a  place,  but  one 
must  think  of  it  and  consider,  too,  Morrison,  who  had  been  so 
good  a  fellow  and  loved  the  world,  and  all  the  things  in  it,  and 
had  thought  of  heaven  also  in  the  spare  moments  that  his 
energy  left  him. 

A  great  sportsman  he  had  been,  with  a  famous  breed  of 
bull-terrier,  and  anxious  to  revive  the  South  Glebeshire 
Hunt;  very  fine,  too,  in  that  last  terrible  year  when  the 
worst  of  all  mortal  diseases  had  leapt  upon  his  throat  and 
shaken  him  with  agony  and  the  imminent  prospect  of  death — 
shaken  him  but  never  terrified  him.  Brandon  summoned 
before  him  that  broad,  jolly,  laughing  figure,  summoned  it, 
bowed  to  its  fortitude  and  optimism,  then,  as  all  men  must, 
at  such  a  moment,  considered  his  own  end ;  then,  having  paid 
his  due  to  Morrison,  returned  to  the  great  business  of  the — 
Living. 

They  were  gathered  together  in  the  hall  now.  The  Bishop 
had  known  Morrison  well  and  greatly  liked  him,  and  he 
could  think  of  nothing  but  the  man  himself.    The  question  of 


292  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

the  succession  could  not  come  near  him  that  day,  and  as  he 
stood,  a  little  white-haired  figure,  tottering  on  his  stick  in  the 
flawed  hall,  he  seemed  already  to  be  far  from  the  others,  to 
be  caught  already  half-way  along  the  road  that  Morrison  was 
now  travelling. 

Both  Brandon  and  Bonder  felt  that  it  was  right  for  them 
to  go,  although  on  a  normal  day  they  would  have  stayed 
walking  in  the  garden  and  talking  for  another  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  until  it  was  time  to  catch  the  three-thirty  train 
from  Carpledon.    Mr.  Pouting  settled  the  situation. 

"His  lordship,"  he  said,  "hopes  that  you  will  let  Bassett 
drive  you  into  Polchester.  There  is  the  little  wagonette; 
Bassett  must  go,  in  any  case,  to  get  some  things.  It  is  no 
trouble,  no  trouble  at  all." 

They,  of  course,  agreed,  although  for  Brandon  at  any  rate 
there  would  be  many  things  in  the  world  pleasanter  than  sit- 
ting with  Bonder  in  a  small  wagonette  for  more  than  an 
hour.  He  also  had  no  liking  for  Bassett,  the  Bishop's  coach- 
man for  the  last  twenty  years,  a  native  of  South  Glebeshire, 
with  all  the  obstinacy,  pride  and  independence  that  that 
definition  includes. 

There  was,  however,  no  other  course,  and,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later,  the  two  clergj^men  found  themselves  opposite  one 
another  in  a  wagonette  that  was  indeed  so  small  that  it  seemed 
inevitable  that  Bonder's  knees  must  meet  Brandon's  and 
Brandon's  ankles  glide  against  Bonder's. 

The  Archdeacon's  temper  was,  by  this  time,  at  its  worst. 
Everything  had  been  ruined  by  Bonder's  presence.  The 
original  grievances  were  bad  enough — the  way  in  which  his 
letter  had  been  flouted,  the  fashion  in  which  his  conversation 
had  been  disregarded  at  luncheon,  the  sanctified  pleasure  that 
Ponting's  angular  countenance  had  expressed  at  every  chock 
that  he  had  received ;  but  all  these  things  mattered  nothing 
compared  with  the  fact  that  Bonder  was  present  at  the  news 
of  Morrison's  death. 

Had  he  been  alone  with  the  Bishop  then,  what  an  oppor- 


TWO  THE  WHISPEKING  GALLERY  293 

tunity  he  would  have  had!  How  exactly  he  would  have 
known  how  to  comfort  the  Bishop,  how  tactful  and  right  he 
would  have  been  in  the  words  that  he  used,  and  what  an 
opportunity  finally  for  turning  the  Bishop's  mind  in  the  way 
it  should  go,  namely,  towards  Rex  Forsyth  I 

As  his  knees,  place  them  where  he  would,  bumped  against 
Render's,  wrath  bubbled  in  his  heart  like  boiling  water  in  a 
kettle.  The  very  immobility  of  Bassett's  broad  back  added  to 
the  irritation. 

"It's  remarkably  small  for  a  wagonette,"  said  Render  at 
last,  when  some  minutes  had  passed  in  silence.  "Further 
north  this  would  not,  I  should  think,  be  called  a  wagonette 
at  all,  but  in  Glebeshire  there  are  special  names  for  every- 
thing.   And  then,  of  course,  we  are  both  big  men." 

This  comparison  was  most  unfortunate.  Render's  body 
was  soft  and  plump,  most  unmistakably  fat.  Brandon's  was 
apparently  in  magnificent  condition.  It  is  well  known  that  a 
large  man  in  good  athletic  condition  has  a  deep,  overwhelming 
contempt  for  men  who  are  fat  and  soft.  Brandon  made  no 
reply.     Render  was  determined  to  be  pleasant. 

"Very  difficult  to  keep  thin  in  this  part  of  the  world,  isn't 
it  ?  Every  morning  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  I  find 
myself  fatter  than  I  was  the  day  before.  Then  I  say  to  my- 
self, 'I'll  give  up  bread  and  potatoes  and  drink  hot  water.' 
Hot  water !  Loathsome  stuff.  Moreover,  have  you  noticed, 
Archdeacon,  that  a  man  who  diets  himself  is  a  perfect 
nuisance  to  all  his  friends  and  neighbours?  The  moment 
he  refuses  potatoes  his  hostess  says  to  him,  'Why,  Mr.  Smith, 
not  one  of  our  potatoes!  Out  of  our  own  garden!'  And 
then  he  explains  to  her  that  he  is  dieting,  whereupon  every 
one  at  the  table  hurriedly  recites  long  and  dreary  histories  of 
how  they  have  dieted  at  one  time  or  another  with  this  or  that 
success.  The  meal  is  ruined  for  yourself  and  every  one  else. 
Now,  isn't  it  so?  What  do  you  do  for  yourself  when  you 
are  putting  on  flesh  ?" 


294  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"I  am  not  aware,"  said  Brandon  in  his  most  haugiitj 
manner,  "that  I  am  putting  on  flesh." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean  just  now,"  answered  Bonder, 
smiling.  "In  any  case,  the  jolting  of  this  wagonette  is 
certain  to  reduce  one.  Anyway,  I  agree  with  you.  It's  a 
tiresome  subject.  There's  no  escaping  fata  We  stout  men 
are  doomed,  I  fancy." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  After  Brandon  had  moved  his 
legs  about  in  every  possible  direction  and  found  it  impossible 
to  escape  Ronder's  knees,  he  said : 

"Excuse  my  knocking  into  you  so  often,  Canon." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Konder,  laughing.  "This 
drive  comes  worse  on  you  than  myself,  I  fancy.  You're 
bonier.  .  .  .  What  a  splendid  figure  the  Bishop  is!  A  great 
man — really,  a  great  man.  There's  something  about  a  man 
of  that  simplicity  and  purity  of  character  that  we  lesser  men 
lack.    Something  out  of  our  grasp  altogether." 

"You  haven't  know  him  very  long,  I  think,"  said  Brandon, 
who  considered  himself  in  no  way  a  lesser  man  than  the 
Bishop. 

"No,  I  have  not,"  said  Bonder,  pleasantly  amused  at  the 
incredible  case  with  which  he  was  able  to  make  the  Arch- 
deacon rise.  "I've  never  been  to  Carpledon  before  to-day.  I 
especially  appreciated  his  inviting  me  when  he  was  having 
so  old  a  friend  as  yourself." 

Another  silence.  Render  looked  about  him ;  the  afternoon 
was  hot,  and  little  beads  of  perspiration  formed  on  his  fore- 
head. One  trickled  down  his  forehead,  another  into  his  eye. 
The  road,  early  in  the  year  though  it  was,  was  already  dusty, 
and  the  high  Glebeshire  hedges  hid  the  view.  The  irritation 
of  the  heat,  the  dust  and  the  sense  that  they  were  enclosed  and 
would  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  jog  along,  thus,  knee  to  knee, 
down  an  eternal  road,  made  Render  uncomfortable;  when  he 
was  uncomfortable  he  was  dangerous.  He  looked  at  the  fixed 
obstinacy  of  the  Archdeacon's  face  and  said: 

"Poor  Morrison  I     So  he's  gone.     I  never  knew  him,  but 


TWO  THE  WHISPERmG  GALLERY  295 

he  must  have  been  a  fine  fellow.  And  the  Pybus  living  is 
vacant." 

Brandon  said  nothing. 

"An  important  decision  that  will  be — I  beg  your  pardon. 
That's  my  knee  again. 

"It's  to  be  hoped  that  they  will  find  a  good  man." 

"There  can  be  only  one  possible  choice,"  said  Brandon, 
planting  his  hands  flat  on  his  knees. 

"Really !"  said  Render,  looking  at  the  Archdeacon  with  an 
air  of  innocent  interest.  "Do  tell  me,  if  it  isn't  a  secret,  who 
that  is." 

"It's  no  secret,"  said  Brandon  in  a  voice  of  level  defiance. 
"Rex  Forsyth  is  the  obvious  man." 

"Really !"  said  Render.  "That  is  interesting.  I  haven't 
heard  him  mentioned.  I'm  afraid  I  know  very  little  about 
him." 

"Know  very  little  about  him!"  said  Brandon  indignantly. 
^^Why,  his  name  has  been  in  every  one's  mouth  for  months !" 

"Indeed !"  said  Render  mildly.  "But  then  I  am,  in  many 
ways,  sadly  out  of  things.    Do  tell  me  about  him." 

"It's  not  for  me  to  tell  you,"  said  Brandon,  looking  at 
Render  with  great  severity.  "You  can  find  out  anything  you 
like  from  the  smallest  boy  in  the  town."  This  was  not  polite, 
but  Render  did  not  mind.  There  was  a  little  pause,  then  he 
said  very  amiably: 

"I  have  heard  some  mention  of  that  man  Wistons." 

"What!"  cried  Brandon  in  a  voice  not  very  far  from  a 
shout.  "The  fellow  who  wrote  that  abnominable  book.  The 
Four  Creeds?" 

"I  suppose  it's  the  same,"  said  Render  gently,  rubbing  his 
knee  a  little. 

"That  man!"  The  Archdeacon  bounced  in  his  seat. 
"That  atheist !  The  leading  enemy  of  the  Church,  the  man 
above  any  who  would  destroy  every  institution  that  the 
Church  possesses!" 

"Come,  come !    Is  it  as  bad  as  that  ?" 


296  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"As  bad  as  that  ?  Worse !  Much  worse  I  I  take  it  that 
you  have  not  read  any  of  his  books." 

''Well,  I  have  read  one  or  two  I" 

"You  have  read  them  and  you  can  mention  his  name  with 
patience  ?" 

"There  are  several  ways  of  looking  at  these  things " 

"Several  ways  of  looking  at  atheism  ?  Thank  you,  Canon. 
Thank  you  very  much  indeed.  I  am  delighted  to  have  your 
opinion  given  so  frankly." 

("What  an  ass  the  man  is !"  thought  Render.  "He's  going 
to  lose  his  temper  here  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  that 
coachman  listening  to  every  word.") 

"You  must  not  take  me  too  literally,  Archdeacon,"  said 
Render.  "What  I  meant  was  that  the  question  whether  Wis- 
tons  is  an  atheist  can  be  argued  from  many  points  of  view." 

"It  can  not!  It  can  not!"  cried  Brandon,  now  shaking 
with  anger.  "There  can  be  no  two  points  of  view.  *He  that 
is  not  with  me  is  against  me' " 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Ronder.  "It  can  not.  There  is 
no  more  to  be  said." 

"There  is  more  to  be  said.  There  is  indeed.  I  am  glad, 
Canon,  that  at  last  you  have  come  out  into  the  open.  I  have 
been  wondering  for  a  long  time  past  when  that  happy  event 
was  to  take  place.  Ever  since  you  came  into  this  town,  you 
have  been  subverting  doctrine,  upsetting  institutions,  destroy- 
ing the  good  work  that  the  Cathedral  has  been  doing  for 
many  years  past.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  this,  a  duty 
that  no  one  else  is  courageous  enough  to  perform " 

"Really,  is  this  quite  the  place?"  said  Ronder,  motioning 
with  his  hand  towards  Bassett's  broad  back,  and  the  massive 
stems  of  the  two  horses  that  rose  and  fell,  like  tubs  on  a 
rocking  sea. 

But  Brandon  was  past  caution,  past  wisdom,  past  disci- 
pline. He  could  see  nothing  now  but  Bonder's  two  rosy 
cheeks  and  the  round  gleaming  spectacles  that  seemed  to  catch 
his  words  disdainfully  and  suspend  them  there  in  indiiTor- 


TWO  THE  WHISPERING  GALLERY  297 

ence.  '^Excuse  me.  It  is  time  indeed.  It  is  long  past  the 
time.  If  you  think  that  you  can  come  here,  a  complete 
stranger,  and  do  what  you  like  with  the  institutions  here, 
you  are  mistaken,  and  thoroughly  mistaken.  There  are  those 
here  who  have  the  interests  of  the  place  at  heart  and  guard 
and  protect  them.  Your  conceit  has  blinded  you,  allow  me 
to  tell  you,  and  it's  time  that  you  had  a  more  modest  estimate 
of  yourself  and  doings." 

"This  really  isn't  the  place,"  murmured  Render,  struggling 
to  avoid  Brandon's  knees. 

"Yes,  atheism  is  nothing  to  you !"  shouted  the  Archdeacon. 
"Nothing  at  all !    You  had  better  be  careful !    I  warn  you !" 

"You  had  better  be  careful,"  said  Ronder,  smiling  in  spite 
of  himself,  "or  you  will  be  out  of  the  carriage." 

That  smile  was  the  final  insult.  Brandon  jumped  up, 
rocking  on  his  feet.  "Very  well,  then.  You  may  laugh  as 
you  pleasa  You  may  think  it  all  a  very  good  joke.  I  tell  you 
it  is  not.  We  are  enemies,  enemies  from  this  moment.  You 
have  never  been  anything  hut  my  enemy." 

"Do  take  care,  Archdeacon,  or  you  really  will  be  out  of 
the  carriage." 

"Very  well.  I  will  get  out  of  it.  I  refuse  to  drive  with 
you  another  step.    I  refuse.    I  refuse." 

"But  you  can't  walk.    It's  six  miles." 

"I  will  walk!  I  will  walk!  Stop  and  let  me  get  out! 
Stop,  I  say !" 

But  Bassett  who,  according  to  his  back,  was  as  innocent  of 
any  dispute  as  the  small  birds  on  the  neighbouring  tree,  drove 
on. 

"Stop,  I  say.  Can't  you  hear  ?"  The  Archdeacon  plunged 
forward  and  pulled  Bassett  by  the  collar.  "Stop!  Stop!" 
The  wagonette  abruptly  stopped. 

Bassett's  amazed  face,  two  wide  eyes  in  a  creased  and 
crumpled  surface,  peered  round. 

"It's  war,  I  tell  you.    War !"  Brandon  climbed  out. 

"But  listen,  Archdeacon !     You  can't !" 


298  THE  CATHEDRAL 

"Drive  on!  Drive  on!"  cried  Brandon,  standing  in  tho 
road  and  shaking  his  umbrella. 

The  wagonette  drove  on.  It  disappeared  over  the  ledge 
of  the  hill. 

There  was  a  sudden  silence.  Brandon's  anger  pounded  up 
into  his  head  in  great  waves  of  constricting  passion.  These 
gradually  faded.  His  knees  were  trembling  beneath  him. 
There  were  new  sounds — birds  singing,  a  tiny  breeze  rustling 
the  hedges.  No  living  soul  in  sight.  He  had  suddenly  a 
strange  impulse  to  shed  tears.  What  had  he  been  saying? 
What  had  he  been  doing?  He  did  not  know  what  he  had 
said.    Another  of  his  tempers.  .  .  . 

The  pain  attacked  his  head — like  a  sword,  like  a  sword. 

He  found  a  stone  and  sat  down  upon  it.  The  pain  invaded 
him  like  an  active  personal  enemy.  Down  the  road  it  seemed 
to  him  figures  were  moving — Hogg,  Davray — that  other 
world — the  dust  rose  in  little  clouds. 

What  had  he  been  doing?  His  head!  Where  did  this 
pain  come  from  ? 

He  felt  old  and  sick  and  weak.  He  wanted  to  be  at  homa 
Slowly  he  began  to  climb  the  hill.  An  enemy,  silent  and 
triumphant,  seemed  to  step  behind  him. 


BOOK    III 
JUBILEE 


CHAPTER  I 

JUNE    17,    THURSDAY:    ANTICIPATIOIT 

IT  must  certainly  be  difficult  for  chroniclers  of  contempo- 
rary history  to  determine  significant  dates  to  define  the 
beginning  and  end  of  succeeding  periods.  But  I  fancy  that 
any  fellow-citizen  of  mine,  if  he  thinks  for  a  moment,  will 
agree  with  me  that  that  Jubilee  Summer  of  1897  was  the  last 
manifestation  in  our  town  of  the  separate  individual  Pol- 
chester  spirit,  of  the  old  spirit  that  had  dwelt  in  its  streets 
and  informed  its  walls  and  roofs  for  hundreds  of  years  past, 
something  as  separate  and  distinct  as  the  smells  of  Seatown, 
the  chime  of  the  Cathedral  bells,  the  cawing  of  the  Cathedral 
rooks  in  the  Precinct  Elms. 

An  interesting  and,  to  one  reader  at  least,  a  pathetic  his- 
tory might  be  written  of  the  decline  and  death  of  that  same 
spirit — not  in  Polchester  alone,  but  in  many  another  small* 
English  town.  From  the  Boer  War  of  1899  to  the  Great 
War  of  1914  stretches  that  destructive  period;  the  agents  of 
that  destruction,  the  new  moneyed  classes,  the  telephone,  the 
telegram,  the  motor,  and  last  of  all,  the  cinema. 

Destruction?  That  is,  perhaps,  too  strong  a  word.  We 
know  that  that  is  simply  the  stepping  from  one  stage  to 
another  of  the  eternal,  the  immortal  cycle.  The  little  hamlet 
embowered  in  its  protecting  trees,  defended  by  its  beloved 
hills,  the  Rock  rising  gaunt  and  naked  in  its  midst ;  then  the 
Cathedral,  the  Monks,  the  Baron's  Castle,  the  feudal  rule; 
then  the  mighty  Bishops  and  the  vast  all-encircling  power 
of  the  Church ;  then  the  new  merchant  age,  the  Elizabethan 
salt  of  adventure;  then  the  cosy  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 

3J1 


302  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

centuries,  with  their  domesticities,  their  little  cultures,  their 
comfortable  religion,  their  stay-at-home  unimaginative  fes- 
tivities. 

Throughout  the  nineteenth  century  that  spirit  lingers, 
gently  repulsing  the  outside  world,  reproving  new  doctrine, 
repressing  new  movement  .  .  .  and  the  Rock  and  the  Cathe- 
dral wait  their  hours,  watching  the  great  sea  that,  far  on  the 
horizon,  is  bathing  its  dykes  and  flooding  the  distant  fields, 
knowing  that  the  waves  are  rising  higher  and  higher,  and 
will  at  last,  with  full  volume,  leap  upon  these  little  pastures, 
these  green-clad  valleys,  these  tiny  hills.  And  in  that  day 
only  the  Cathedral  and  the  Rock  will  stand  out  above  the 
flood. 

And  this  was  a  Polchester  Jubilee.  There  may  have  been 
some  consciousness  of  that  little  old  woman  driving  in  her 
carriage  through  the  London  streets,  but  in  the  main  the 
Town  suddenly  took  possession,  cried  aloud  that  these  festivi- 
ties were  for  Herself,  that  for  a  week  at  least  the  Town 
would  assert  Herself,  bringing  into  Her  celebration  the 
Cathedral  that  was  her  chief  glory,  but  of  whom,  neverthe- 
less, she  was  afraid ;  the  Rock  upon  which  she  was  built,  that 
never  changed,  the  country  that  surrounded  and  supported 
her,  the  wild  men  who  had  belonged  to  her  from  time  im- 
memorial, the  River  that  encircled  her. 

That  week  seemed  to  many,  on  looking  back,  a  strangely 
mad  time,  days  informed  with  a  wildness  for  which  there  was 
no  discernible  reason — men  and  women  and  children  were 
seized  that  week  with  some  licence  that  they  loved  while  it 
lasted,  but  that  they  looked  back  upon  with  fear  when  it  was 
over.  What  had  come  over  them  ?  Who  had  been  grinning 
at  them  ? 

The  strange  things  that  occurred  that  week  seemed  to 
have  no  individual  agent.  No  one  was  responsible.  But  life, 
after  that  week,  was  for  many  people  in  the  town  never  quite 
the  same  again. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Thursday,  June  17,  Render  stood  at 


THEEE  JUBILEE  303 

the  window  of  his  study  and  looked  down  upon  the  little 
orchard,  the  blazing  flowers,  the  red  garden-wall,  and  the 
tree-tops  on  the  descending  hill,  all  glazed  and  sparkling 
under  the  hot  afternoon  sun.  As  he  looked  down,  seeing 
nothing,  sunk  deeply  in  his  own  thoughts,  he  was  aware  of 
extreme  moral  and  spiritual  discomfort.  He  moved  back 
from  the  window,  making  with  his  fingers  a  little  gesture  of 
discontent  and  irritation.  He  paced  his  room,  stopping 
absent-mindedly  once  and  again  to  push  in  a  book  that  pro- 
truded from  the  shelves,  staying  to  finger  things  on  his  writ- 
ing-table, jolting  against  a  chair  with  his  foot  as  he  moved. 
At  last  he  flung  himself  into  his  deep  leather  chair  and 
stared  fixedly  at  an  old  faded  silk  fire-guard,  with  its  shadowy 
flowers  and  dim  purple  silk,  seeing  it  not  at  all. 

He  was  angry,  and  of  all  things  in  the  world  that  he  hated, 
he  hated  most  to  be  that.  He  had  been  angry  now  for  several 
weeks,  and,  as  though  it  had  been  a  heavy  cold  that  had 
descended  upon  him,  he  woke  up  every  morning  expecting  to 
find  that  his  anger  had  departed — but  it  had  not  departed ;  it 
showed  no  signs  whatever  of  departing. 

As  he  sat  there  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  Jubilee,  the  one 
thought  at  that  time  of  every  living  soul  in  Polchester,  man, 
woman  and  child — ^he  was  thinking  of  no  one  but  Brandon, 
with  whom,  to  his  own  deep  disgust,  he  was  at  last  impla- 
cably, remorselessly,  angry.  How  many  years  ago  now  he  had 
decided  that  anger  and  hatred  were  emotions  that  every  wise 
man,  at  all  cost  to  his  pride,  his  impatience,  his  self-confi- 
dence, avoided.  Everything  could  be  better  achieved  without 
these  weaknesses,  and  for  many  years  he  had  tutored  and 
trained  himself  until,  at  last,  he  had  reached  this  fine  height 
of  superiority.     From  that  height  he  had  suddenly  fallen. 

It  was  now  three  weeks  since  that  luncheon  at  Carpledon, 
and  in  one  way  or  another  the  quarrel  on  the  road  home — 
the  absurd  and  ludicrous  quarrel — had  become  known  to  the 
whole  town.  Had  Brandon  revealed  it?  Or  possibly  the 
coachman?     Whoever   it  was,   every   one  now   knew   and 


304  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

laughed.  Laughed!  It  was  that  for  which  Render  would 
never  forgive  Brandon.  The  man  with  his  childish  temper 
and  monstrous  conceit  had  made  him  into  a  ludicrous  figure. 
It  was  true  that  they  were  laughing,  it  seemed,  more  at 
Brandon  than  at  himself,  but  the  whole  scene  was  farcical. 
But  beyond  this,  that  incident,  trivial  though  it  might  be  in 
itself,  had  thrown  the  relationship  of  the  two  men  into 
dazzling  prominence.  It  was  as  though  they  had  been 
publicly  announced  as  antagonists,  and  now,  stripped  and 
prepared,  ringed  in  by  the  breathless  Town,  must  vulgarly 
afford  the  roughs  of  the  place  the  fistic  exhibition  of  their 
lives.  It  was  the  publicity  that  Ronder  detested.  He  had 
not  disliked  Brandon — he  had  merely  despised  him,  and  he 
had  taken  an  infinite  pleasure  in  furthering  schemes  and  am- 
bitions, a  little  underground  maybe,  but  all  for  the  final 
benefit  of  the  Town. 

And  now  the  blundering  fool  had  brought  this  blaze  down 
upon  them,  was  indeed  rushing  round  and  screaming  at  his 
antagonist,  shouting  to  any  one  who  would  hear  that  Ronder 
was  a  blackguard  and  a  public  menace.  It  had  been  whis- 
pered— from  what  source  again  Ronder  did  not  know — that  it 
was  through  Render's  influence  that  young  Falk  Brandon 
had  run  off  to  Town  with  Hogg's  daughter.  The  boy  thought 
the  world  of  Ronder,  it  was  said,  and  had  been  to  see  him  and 
ask  his  advice.  Ronder  knew  that  Brandon  had  heard  this 
story  and  was  publicly  declaring  that  Ronder  had  ruined  his 
son. 

Finally  the  two  men  were  brought  into  sharp  rivalry  over 
the  Pybus  living.  Over  that,  too,  the  town,  or  at  any  rate 
the  Cathedral  section  of  it,  was  in  two  camps.  Here,  too, 
Brandon's  vociferous  publicity  had  made  privacy  impossible. 

Ronder  was  ashamed,  as  though  his  rotund  body  had  been 
suddenly  exposed  in  all  its  obese  nakedness  before  the 
assembled  citizens  of  Polchester.  In  this  public  quarrel  he 
was  not  in  his  element;  forces  were  rising  in  him  that  he 
distrusted  and  feared. 


THREE  JUBILEE  305 

People  were  laughing  .  .  .  for  that  he  would  never  forgive 
Brandon  so  long  as  he  lived. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  he  was  about  to  close  the 
window  and  try  to  work  at  his  sermon  when  some  one 
knocked  at  his  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  impatiently.    The  maid  appeared. 

"Please,  sir,  there's  some  one  would  like  to  speak  to  you." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"She  gave  her  name  as  Miss  Milton,  sir." 

He  paused,  looking  down  at  his  papers.  "She  said  she 
wouldn't  keep  you  more  than  a  moment,  sir." 

"Very  well.    I'll  see  her." 

Fate  pushing  him  again.  Why  should  this  woman  come  to 
him  ?  How  could  any  one  say  that  any  of  the  steps  that  he 
had  taken  in  this  affair  had  been  his  fault?  Why,  he  had 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  them! 

The  sight  of  Miss  Milton  in  his  doorway  filled  him  with 
the  same  vague  disgust  that  he  had  known  on  the  earlier 
occasions  at  the  Library.  To-day  she  was  wearing  a  white 
cotton  dress,  rather  faded  and  crumpled,  and  grey  silk  gloves ; 
in  one  of  the  fingers  there  was  a  hole.  She  carried  a  pink 
parasol,  and  wore  a  large  straw  hat  overtrimmed  with  roses. 
Her  face  with  its  little  red-rimmed  eyes,  freckled  and  flushed 
complexion,  her  clumsy  thick-set  figure,  fitted  ill  with  her 
youthful  dress. 

It  was  obvious  enough  that  fate  had  not  treated  her  well 
since  her  departure  from  the  Library;  she  was  running  to 
seed  very  swiftly,  and  was  herself  bitterly  conscious  of  the 
fact. 

Render,  looking  at  her,  was  aware  that  it  was  her  own 
fault  that  it  was  so.  She  was  incompetent,  utterly  incompe- 
tent. He  had,  as  he  had  promised,  given  her  some  work  to  do 
during  these  last  weeks,  come  copying,  some  arranging  of 
letters,  and  she  had  mismanaged  it  all.  She  was  a  muddle- 
headed,  ill-educated,  careless,  conceited  and  self-opinionated 
woman,  and  it  did  not  make  it  any  the  pleasanter  for  Render 


306  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

to  be  aware,  as  he  now  was,  that  Brandon  had  been  quite  right 
to  dismiss  her  from  her  Library  post  which  she  had  retained 
far  too  long. 

She  looked  across  the  room  at  him  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  obstinacy  and  false  humility.  Her  eyes  were  nearly 
closed. 

"Good-afternoon,  Canon  Render,"  she  said.  "It  is  very 
good  of  you  to  see  me.     I  shall  not  detain  you  very  long." 

"Well,  what  is  it.  Miss  Milton  ?"  he  said,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  her.  "I  am  very  busy,  as  a  matter  of  fact  All 
these  Jubilee  affairs — however,  if  I  can  help  you." 

"You  can  help  me,  sir.  It  is  a  most  serious  matter,  and  I 
need  your  advice." 

"Well,  sit  down  there  and  tell  me  about  it." 

The  sun  was  beating  into  the  room.  He  went  across  and 
pulled  down  the  blind,  partly  because  it  was  hot  and  partly 
because  Miss  Milton  was  less  unpleasant  in  shadow. 

Miss  Milton  seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  begin.  She  gulped 
in  her  throat  and  rubbed  her  silk  gloves  nervously  against  one 
another. 

"I  daresay  I've  done  wrong  in  this  matter,"  she  began — 
**many  would  think  so.  But  I  haven't  come  here  to  excuse 
myself.  If  I've  done  wrong,  there  are  others  who  have  done 
more  wrong — ^yes,  indeed." 

"Please  come  to  the  point,"  said  Render  impatiently. 

"I  will,  sir.  That  is  my  desire.  Well,  you  must  know,  sir, 
that  after  my  most  unjust  dismissal  from  the  Library  I  took  a 
couple  of  rooms  with  Mrs.  Bassett  who  lets  rooms,  as  perhaps 
you  know,  sir,  just  opposite  St.  James'  Rectory,  Mr. 
Morris's." 

"Well?"  said  Ronder. 

^'Well,  sir,  I  had  not  been  there  very  long  before  Mrs. 
Bassett  herself,  who  is  the  least  interfering  and  muddling  of 
women,  drew  my  attention  to  a  curious  fact,  a  most  curious 
fact." 


THEEB 


JUBILEE  30r 


Miss  Milton  paused,  looking  down  at  her  lap  and  at  a  little 
shabby  black  bag  that  lay  upon  it. 

''Well  ?"  said  Ronder  again. 

"This  fact  was  that  Mrs.  Brandon,  the  wife  of  Archdeacon 
Brandon,  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  every  day  to  see  Mr. 
Morris !" 

Ronder  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"Now,  Miss  Milton,"  he  said,  "let  me  make  myself  per- 
fectly clear.  If  you  have  come  here  to  give  me  a  lot  of 
scandal  about  some  person,  or  persons,  in  this  town,  I  do 
not  wish  to  hear  it.  You  have  come  to  the  wrong  place.  I 
wonder,  indeed,  that  you  should  care  to  acknowledge  to  any 
one  that  you  have  been  spying  at  your  window  on  the  move- 
ments of  some  people  here.  That  is  a  disgraceful  action.  I 
do  not  think  there  is  any  need  for  this  conversation  to 
continue." 

"Excuse  me.  Canon  Render,  there  is  need."  Miss  Milton 
showed  no  intention  whatever  of  moving  from  her  chair.  "I 
was  aware  that  you  would,  in  all  probability,  rebuke  me  for 
what  I  have  done.  I  expected  that.  At  the  same  time  I 
may  say  that  I  was  not  spying  in  any  sense  of  the  word.  I 
could  not  help  it  if  the  windows  of  my  sitting-room  looked 
down  upon  Mr.  Morris's  house.  You  could  not  expect  me, 
in  this  summer  weather,  not  to  sit  at  my  window. 

"At  the  same  time,  if  these  visits  of  Mrs.  Brandon's  were 
all  that  had  occurred  I  should  certainly  not  have  come  and 
taken  up  your  valuable  time  with  an  account  of  them ;  I  hope 
that  I  know  what  is  due  to  a  gentleman  of  your  position  better 
than  that.  It  is  on  a  matter  of  real  importance  that  I  have 
come  to  you  to  ask  your  advice.  Some  one's  advice  I  must 
have,  and  if  you  feel  that  you  cannot  give  it  me,  I  must  go 
elsewhere.  I  cannot  but  feel  that  it  is  better  for  every  one 
concerned  that  you  should  have  this  piece  of  information 
rather  than  any  one  else." 

He  noticed  how  she  had  grown  in  firmness  and  resolve  since 
she  had  begun  to  speak.    She  now  saw  her  way  to  the  carry- 


308  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

ing  out  of  her  plan.  There  was  a  definite  threat  in  the  words 
of  her  last  sentence,  and  as  she  looked  at  him  across  the 
shadowy  light  he  felt  as  though  he  saw  down  into  her  mean 
little  soul,  filled  now  wiUi  hatred  and  obstinacy  and  jealous 
determination. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  severely,  "I  cannot  refuse  your  confi- 
dence if  you  are  determined  to  give  it  me." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head.  "You  have  always 
been  very  kind  to  me,  Canon  Render,  as  you  have  been  to 
many  others  in  this  place.  Thank  you."  She  looked  at  him 
almost  as  severely  as  he  had  looked  at  her.  "I  will  be  as  brief 
as  possible.  I  will  not  hide  from  you  that  I  have  never  for- 
given Archdeacon  Brandon  for  his  cruel  treatment  of  me. 
That,  I  think,  is  natural.  When  your  livelihood  is  taken 
away  from  you  for  no  reason  at  all,  you  are  not  likely  to  for- 
get it — if  you  are  human.  And  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  more 
nor  less  than  human.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  saw  these  visits 
of  Mrs.  Brandon's  with  considerable  curiosity.  There  was 
something  hurried  and  secret  in  Mrs.  Brandon's  manner  that 
seemed  to  me  odd.  I  became  then,  quite  by  chance,  the  friend 
of  Mr.  Morris's  cook-housekeeper,  Mrs.  Baker,  a  very  nice 
woman.  That,  I  think,  was  quite  natural  as  we  were  neigh- 
bours, so  to  speak,  and  Mrs.  Baker  was  herself  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Bassett's. 

"I  asked  no  indiscreet  questions,  but  at  last  Mrs.  Baker 
confessed  to  both  Mrs.  Bassett  and  myself  that  she  did  not 
like  what  was  going  on  in  Mr.  Morris's  house,  and  that  she 
thought  of  giving  notice.  When  we  asked  her  what  she  meant 
she  said  that  Mrs.  Brandon  was  the  trouble,  that  she  was 
always  coming  to  the  house,  and  that  she  and  the  reverend 
gentleman  were  shut  up  for  hours  together  by  themselves. 
She  told  us,  too,  that  Mr.  Morris's  sister-in-law,  Miss  Burnett, 
had  also  made  objections.  We  advised  Mrs.  Baker  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  stay,  at  any  rate  for  the  present." 

Miss  Milton  paused.    Ronder  said  nothing. 

''Well,  sir,  things  got  so  bad  that  Miss  Burnett  waat  away 


THEEB  JUBILEE  309 

to  the  sea.  During  her  absence  Mrs.  Brandon  came  to  the 
house  quite  regularly,  and  Mrs.  Baker  told  us  that  they 
scarcely  seemed  to  mind  who  saw  them." 

As  Render  looked  at  her  he  realised  how  little  he  knew 
about  women.  He  hated  to  realise  this,  as  he  hated  to  realise 
any  ignorance  or  weakness  in  himself,  but  in  the  face  of  the 
woman  opposite  to  him  there  was  a  mixture  of  motives — of 
greed,  revenge,  yes,  and  strangely  enough,  of  a  virgin's  out- 
raged propriety — that  was  utterly  alien  to  his  experience. 
He  felt  his  essential,  his  almost  inhuman,  celibacy  more  at 
that  moment,  perhaps,  than  he  had  ever  felt  it  before. 

"Well,  sir,  this  went  on  for  some  weeks.  Miss  Burnett 
returned,  but,  as  Mrs.  Baker  said,  the  situation  remained  very 
strained.  To  come  to  my  point,  four  days  ago  I  was  in  one 
evening  paying  Mrs.  Baker  a  visit.  Every  one  was  out, 
although  Mr.  Morris  was  expected  home  for  his  dinner. 
There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell  and  Mrs.  Baker  said,  'You  go, 
my  dear.'  She  was  busy  at  the  moment  with  the  cooking. 
I  went  and  opened  the  hall-door  and  there  was  Mrs.  Bran- 
don's parlourmaid  that  I  knew  by  sight.  *I  have  a  note  for 
Mr.  Morris,'  she  said.  'You  can  give  it  to  me,'  I  said. 
She  seemed  to  hesitate,  but  I  told  her  if  she  didn't  give  it  to 
me  she  might  as  well  take  it  away  again,  because  there  was  no 
one  else  in  the  house.  That  seemed  to  settle  her,  so  telling 
me  it  was  something  special,  and  was  to  be  given  to  Mr. 
Morris  as  soon  as  possible,  she  left  it  with  me  and  went. 
She'd  never  seen  me  before,  I  daresay,  and  didn't  know  I 
didn't  belong  to  the  house."  She  paused,  then  opening  her 
little  eyes  wide  and  staring  at  Bonder  as  though  she  were 
seeing  him  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  said  softly,  "I 
have  the  note  here." 

She  opened  her  black  bag  slowly,  peered  into  it,  produced 
a  piece'of  paper  out  of  it,  and  shut  it  with  a  sharp  little  click. 

"You've  kept  it?"  asked  Bonder. 

"I've  kept  it,"  she  repeated,  nodding  her  head.  "I  know 
many  would  say  I  was  wrong.     But  was  I?     That's  the 


310  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

question.    In  any  case  that  is  another  matter  between  myself 
and  my  Maker." 

"Please  read  this,  sir?"  She  held  out  the  paper  to  him. 
He  took  it  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  read  it.  It  had 
neither  date  nor  address.    It  ran  as  follows: 

Dearest — I  am  sending  this  by  a  safe  hand  to  tell  you  that 
I  cannot  possibly  get  down  to-night.  I  am  so  sorry  and  most 
dreadfully  disappointed,  but  I  will  explain  everything  when  we 
meet  to-morrow.  This  is  to  prevent  your  waiting  on  when  I'm 
not  coming. 

There  was  no  signature. 

"You  had  no  right  to  keep  this,"  he  said  to  her  angrily. 
As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  the  piece  of  paper  and  felt  again 
how  strange  and  foreign  to  him  the  whole  nature  of  woman 
was.  The  risks  that  they  would  take!  The  foolish  mad 
things  that  they  would  do  to  satisfy  some  caprice  or  whim ! 

"How  do  you  know  that  this  was  written  by  Mrs.  Bran- 
don ?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  I  know  her  handwriting  very  well,"  Miss  Mil- 
ton answered.  "She  often  wrote  to  me  when  I  was  at  the 
Library." 

He  was  silent.  He  was  seeing  those  two  in  the  new  light 
of  this  letter.  So  they  were  really  lovers,  the  drab,  unroman- 
tic,  plain,  dull,  middle-aged  souls!  What  had  they  seen  in 
one  another  ?  What  had  they  felt,  to  drive  them  to  deeds  so 
desperate,  yes,  and  so  absurd  ?  Was  there  then  a  world  right 
outside  his  ken,  a  world  from  which  he  had  been  since  hia 
birth  excluded  ? 

Absent-mindedly  he  had  put  the  letter  down  on  his  table. 
Quickly  she  stretched  out  her  gloved  hand  and  took  it.  The 
bag  clicked  over  it. 

"Why  have  you  brought  this  to  me  ?"  he  asked,  looking  at 
her  with  a  disgust  that  he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal. 

**You  are  the  first  person  to  whom  I  have  spoken  about  the 


THEEB  JUBILEE  311 

matter,"  she  answered.  "I  have  not  said  anything  even  to 
Mrs.  Baker.  I  have  had  the  letter  for  several  days  and  have 
not  known  what  is  right  to  do  about  it." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  that  is  right  to  do  about  it,"  he 
answered  sharply.     "Burn  it." 

"And  say  nothing  to  anybody  about  it  ?  Oh,  Canon  Ren- 
der, surely  that  would  not  be  right.  I  should  not  like  people 
to  think  that  you  had  given  me  such  advice.  To  allow  the 
Rector  of  St.  James'  to  continue  in  his  position,  with  so  many 
looking  up  to  him,  and  he  committing  such  sins.  Oh,  no,  sir, 
I  cannot  feel  that  to  be  right !" 

"It  is  not  our  business,"  he  answered  angrily.  "It  is  not 
our  affair." 

"Very  well,  sir."  She  got  up.  "It's  good  of  you  to  give 
me  your  opinion.  It  is  not  our  affair.  Quite  so.  But  it  is 
Archdeacon  Brandon's  affair.  He  should  see  this  letter.  I 
thought  that  perhaps  you  yourself  might  like  to  speak  to 
him "  she  paused. 

"I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  answered,  getting 
up  and  standing  over  her.  "You  did  very  wrong  to  keep  the 
letter.  You  are  cherishing  evil  passions  in  your  heart,  Miss 
Milton,  that  will  bring  you  nothing  but  harm  and  sorrow  in 
the  end.  You  have  come  to  me  for  advice,  you  say.  Well,  I 
give  it  to  you.    Burn  that  letter  and  forget  what  you  know." 

Her  complexion  had  changed  to  a  strange  muddy  grey  as 
he  spoke. 

"There  are  others  in  this  tovm,  Canon  Ronder,"  she  said, 
"who  are  cherishing  much  the  same  passions  as  myself, 
although  they  may  not  realise  it.  I  thought  it  wise  to  tell  you 
what  I  know.  As  you  will  not  help  me,  I  know  now  what  to 
do.  I  am  grateful  for  your  advice — which,  however,  I  do  not 
think  you  wish  me  to  follow." 

With  one  last  look  at  him  she  moved  softly  to  the  door 
and  was  gone.  She  seemed  to  him  to  leave  some  muddy  im- 
pression of  her  personality  upon  the  walls  and  furniture  of 
the  room.     He  flung  up  the  window,  walked  about  rubbing 


312  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

his  hands  against  one  another  behind  his  back,  hating  every- 
thing around  him- 

The  words  of  the  note  repeated  themselves  again  and  again 
in  his  head. 

"Dearest  .  .  .  safe  hand  .  .  .  dreadfully  disappointed. 
.  .  .  Dearest" 

Those  two !  He  saw  Morris,  with  his  weak  face,  his  mild 
eyes,  his  rather  shabby  clothes,  his  hesitating  manner,  his 
thinning  hair — and  Mrs.  Brandon,  so  mediocre  that  no  one 
ever  noticed  her,  never  noticed  anything  about  her — what  she 
wore,  what  she  said,  what  she  did,  anything ! 

Those  two  I  Ghosts!  and  in  love  so  that  they  would  risk 
loss  of  everything — reputation,  possessions,  family — that 
they  might  obtain  their  desire!  In  love  as  he  had  never  been 
in  all  his  life ! 

His  thoughts  turned,  with  a  little  shudder,  to  Miss  Milton. 
She  had  come  to  him  because  she  thought  that  he  would  like 
to  share  in  her  revenge.  That,  more  than  anything,  hurt  him, 
bringing  him  down  to  her  base,  sordid  level,  making  him 
fellow-conspirator  with  her,  plotting  .  .  .  ugh  I  How  cruelly 
unfair  that  he,  upright,  generous,  should  be  involved  like 
this  so  meanly. 

Ee  washed  his  hands  in  the  little  dressing-room  near  the 
study,  scrubbing  them  as  though  the  contact  with  Miss  Milton 
still  lingered  there.  Hating  his  own  company,  he  went  down- 
stairs, where  he  found  Ellen  Stiles,  having  had  a  very  happy 
tea  with  his  aunt,  preparing  to  depart. 

"Going,  Ellen  ?"  he  asked. 

She  was  in  the  highest  spirits  and  a  hat  of  vivid  green. 

"Yes,  I  must  go.  I've  been  here  ever  so  long.  We've  had 
a  perfectly  lovely  time,  talking  all  about  poor  Mrs.  Maynard 
and  her  consumption.  There's  simply  no  hope  for  her,  I*m 
afraid;  it's  such  a  shame  when  she  has  four  small  children; 
but  as  I  told  her  yesterday,  it's  really  best  to  make  up  one's 
mind  to  the  worst,  and  there'll  be  no  money  for  the  poor  little 
things  after  she's  gona    I  don't  know  what  they'll  do." 


THREE  JUBILEE  313 

"You  must  have  cheered  her  up,"  said  Ronder. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Like  all  consumptives  she 
will  persist  in  thinking  that  she's  going  to  get  well.  Of 
course,  if  she  had  money  enough  to  go  to  Davos  or  somewhere 
.  .  .  but  she  hasn't,  so  there's  simply  no  hope  at  all." 

"If  you  are  going  along  I'll  walk  part  of  the  way  with 
you,"  said  Ronder. 

"That  will  be  nice."  Ellen  kissed  Miss  Ronder  very 
affectionately.  "Good-bye,  you  darling.  I  have  had  a  nice 
time.  Won't  it  be  awful  if  it's  wet  next  week?  Simply 
everything  will  be  ruined.  I  don't  see  much  chance  of  its 
being  fine  myself.    Still  you  never  can  tell." 

They  went  out  together.  The  Precincts  was  quiet  and 
deserted;  a  bell,  below  in  the  sunny  town,  was  ringing  for 
Evensong.  "Morris's  church,  perhaps,"  thought  Ronder. 
The  light  was  stretched  like  a  screen  of  coloured  silk  across 
the  bright  green  of  the  Cathedral  square ;  the  great  Church 
itself  was  in  shadow,  misty  behind  the  sun,  and  shifting  from 
shade  to  shade  as  though  it  were  under  water. 

When  they  had  walked  a  little  way  Ellen  said:  "What's 
the  matter  ?" 

"The  matter  ?"  Ronder  echoed. 

"Yes.  You're  looking  worried,  and  that's  so  rare  with  you 
that  when  it  happens  one's  interested." 

He  hesitated,  looking  at  her  and  almost  stopping  in  his 
walk.  An  infernal  nuisance  if  Ellen  Stiles  were  to  choose 
this  moment  for  the  exercise  of  her  unfortunate  curiosity  I 
He  had  intended  to  go  down  High  Street  with  her  and  then  to 
go  by  way  of  Orange  Street  to  Foster's  rooms ;  but  one  could 
reach  Foster  more  easily  by  the  little  crooked  street  behind 
the  Cathedral.  He  would  say  good-bye  to  her  here.  .  .  . 
Then  another  thought  struck  him.    He  would  go  on  with  her. 

"Isn't  your  curiosity  terrible,  Ellen!"  he  said,  laughing. 
"If  you  didn't  happen  to  have  a  kind  heart  hidden  some- 
where about  you,  you'd  be  a  perfectly  impossible  woman.  As 
it  is,  I'm  not  sure  that  you're  not." 


314  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


"I  think  perhaps  I  am,"  Ellen  answered,  laughing.  "I  do 
take  a  great  interest  in  other  people's  affairs.  Well,  why  not  ? 
It  prevents  me  from  being  bored." 

"But  not  from  being  a  bore,"  said  Ronder.  "I  hate  to  be 
unpleasant,  but  there's  nothing  more  tiresome  than  being 
asked  why  one's  in  a  certain  mood.  However,  leave  me  alone 
and  I  will  repay  your  curiosity  by  some  of  my  own.  Tell 
me,  how  much  are  people  talking  about  Mrs.  Brandon  and 
Morris  ?" 

This  time  she  was  genuinely  surprised.  On  so  many 
occasions  he  had  checked  her  love  of  gossip  and  scandal  and 
now  he  was  deliberately  provoking  it.  It  was  as  though  ho 
had  often  lectured  her  about  drinking  too  much  and  then  had 
been  discovered  by  her,  secretly  tippling. 

"Oh,  everybody's  talking,  of  course,"  she  said.  "Although 
you  pretend  never  to  talk  scandal  you  must  know  enough 
about  the  town  to  know  that.  They  happen  to  be  talking  less 
just  at  the  moment  because  nobody's  thinking  of  anything 
but  the  Jubilee." 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  said  Bonder,  "is  how  much  Bran- 
don is  supposed  to  be  aware  of — and  does  he  mind  ?" 

"He's  aware  of  nothing,"  said  Ellen  decisively.  "Nothing 
at  all.  He's  always  looked  upon  his  wife  as  a  piece  of  furni- 
ture, neither  very  ornamental  nor  very  useful,  but  still  his 
property,  and  therefore  to  be  reckoned  on  as  stable  and  sub- 
missive. I  don't  think  that  in  any  case  he  would  ever  dream 
that  she  could  disobey  him  in  anything,  but,  as  it  happens, 
his  son's  flight  to  London  and  his  own  quarrel  with  you  en- 
tirely possess  his  mind.  He  talks,  eats,  thinks,  dreams  noth- 
ing else." 

"What  would  he  do,  do  you  think,"  pursued  Ronder,  "if  he 
were  to  discover  that  there  really  tvas  something  wrong,  that 
she  had  been  unfaithful  ?" 

"Wliy,  is  tliere  proof  ?"  asked  Ellen  Stiles,  eagerly,  pausing 
for  a  moment  in  her  excitement. 

The  sharp  note  of  eagerness  in  her  voice  checked  him. 


THREE  JUBILEE  315 

"N^o — nothing,"  he  said.  "ITothing  at  all.  Of  course  not. 
And  how  should  I  know  if  there  were  ?" 

"You're  just  the  person  who  would  know,"  answered  Ellen 
decisively.  "However  many  other  people  you've  hoodwinked, 
you  haven't  taken  me  in  all  these  years.  But  I'll  tell  you 
this  as  from  one  friend  to  another,  that  you've  made  the  first 
mistake  in  your  life  by  allowing  this  quarrel  with  Brandon 
to  become  so  public." 

He  marvelled  again,  as  he  had  often  marvelled  before,  at 
her  unerring  genius  for  discovering  just  the  thing  to  say  to 
her  friends  that  would  hurt  them  most.  And  yet  with  that 
she  had  a  kind  heart,  as  he  had  had  reason  often  enough  to 
know.     Queer  things,  women ! 

"It's  not  my  fault  if  the  quarrel's  become  public,"  he  said. 
They  were  turning  down  the  High  Street  now  and  he  could 
not  show  all  the  vexation  that  he  felt.  "It's  Brandon's  own 
idiotic  character  and  the  love  of  gossip  displayed  by  this 
town." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  delighted  that  she  had  annoyed  him 
and  that  he  was  showing  his  annoyance,  "that  simply  means 
that  you've  been  defeated  by  circumstances.  Eor  once  they've 
been  too  strong  for  you.  If  you  like  that  explanation  you'd 
better  take  it." 

"!N"ow,  Ellen,"  he  said,  "you're  trying  to  make  me  lose  my 
temper  in  revenge  for  my  not  satisfying  your  curiosity ;  give 
up.    You've  tried  before  and  you've  always  failed." 

She  laughed,  putting  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"Yes,  don't  let's  quarrel,"  she  said.  "Isn't  it  delightful 
to-night  with  the  sunlight  and  the  excitement  and  every  one 
out  enjoying  themselves?  I  love  to  see  them  happy,  poor 
things.  It's  only  the  successful  and  the  self-important  and 
the  patronising  that  I  want  to  pull  down  a  little.  As  soon  as 
I  find  myself  wanting  to  dig  at  somebody,  I  know  it's  because 
they're  getting  above  themselves.  You'd  better  be  careful. 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  success  isn't  going  to  your  head." 

"Success  ?"  he  asked. 


316  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

**Ye6.  Don't  look  so  innocent.  You've  been  here  only  a 
few  months  and  already  you're  the  only  man  here  who  counts. 
You've  beaten  Brandon  in  the  very  first  round,  and  it's  absurd 
of  you  to  pretend  to  an  old  friend  like  myself  that  you  don't 
know  that  you  have.     But  be  careful." 

The  street  was  shining,  wine-coloured,  against  the  black 
walls  that  hemmed  it  in,  black  walls  scattered  with  sheets 
of  glass,  absurd  curtains  of  muslin,  brown,  shabby,  self- 
ashamed  backs  of  looking-glasses,  door-knobs,  flower-pots,  and 
collections  of  furniture,  books  and  haberdashery. 

"Suppose  you  leave  me  alone  for  a  moment,  Ellen,"  said 
Render,  "and  think  of  somebody  else.  What  I  really  want  to 
know  is,  how  intimate  are  you  with  Mrs.  Brandon  ?" 

"Intimate?" 

"Yes.  I  mean — could  you  speak  to  her?  Tell  her,  in 
some  way,  to  be  more  careful,  that  she's  in  danger.  Women 
know  how  to  do  these  things.     I  want  to  find  somebody." 

He  paused.  Did  he  want  to  find  somebody?  Why  this 
strange  tenderness  towards  Mrs.  Brandon  of  which  he  was 
quite  suddenly  conscious  ?  Was  it  his  disgust  of  Miss  Milton, 
so  that  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  any  one  in  the  power  of 
such  a  woman  ? 

"Warn  her  ?"  said  Ellen.     "Then  she  is  in  danger." 

"Only  if,  as  you  say,  every  one  is  talking.  I'm  sorry  for 
her." 

They  had  come  to  the  parting  of  their  ways.  "No.  J 
don't  know  her  well  enough  for  that.  She  wouldn't  take  it 
from  me.  She  wouldn't  take  it  from  anybody.  She's 
prouder  than  you'd  think.  And  it's  my  belief  she  doesn't 
care  if  she  is  in  danger.  She'd  rather  welcome  it.  That's 
my  belief." 

"Good-bye  then.  I  won't  ask  you  to  keep  our  talk  quiet 
I  don't  suppose  you  could  if  you  wanted  to.  But  I  tuUl  ask 
you  to  be  kind." 

"Why  should  I  be  kind  ?  And  you  know  you  don't  want 
me  to  be,  really." 


THEEE  JUBILEE  317 

"I  do  want  you  to  ba" 

"'No,  it's  part  of  the  game  you're  playing.  Or  if  it  isn't, 
you're  changing  more  than  you've  ever  changed  before.  Look 
out !     Perhaps  it's  you  that's  in  danger !" 

As  he  turned  up  Orange  Street  he  wondered  again  what 
impulse  it  was  that  was  making  him  sorry  for  Mrs.  Brandon. 
He  always  wished  people  to  be  happy — life  was  easier  so — 
but  had  he,  even  yesterday,  been  told  that  he  would  ever  feel 
concern  for  Mrs.  Brandon,  that  supreme  symbol  of  feminine 
colourless  mediocrity,  he  would  have  laughed  derisively. 

Then  the  beauty  of  the  hour  drove  everything  else  from 
him.  The  street  climbed  straight  into  the  sky,  a  broad  flat 
sheet  of  gold,  and  on  its  height  the  monument,  perched  against 
the  quivering  air,  was  a  purple  shaft,  its  gesture  proud, 
haughty,  exultant.  Suddenly  he  saw  in  front  of  him,  moving 
with  quick,  excited  steps,  Mrs.  Brandon,  an  absurdly  insigni- 
ficant figure  against  that  splendour. 

He  felt  as  though  his  thoughts  had  evoked  her  out  of  space, 
and  as  though  she  was  there  against  her  will.  Then  he  felt 
that  he,  too,  was  there  against  his  will,  and  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  either  the  time  or  the  place. 

He  caught  her  up.  She  started  nervously  when  he  said, 
"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Brandon,"  and  raised  her  little  mouse- 
face  with  its  mild,  hesitating,  grey  eyes  to  his.  He  knew  her 
only  slightly  and  was  conscious  that  she  did  not  like  him. 
That  was  not  his  affair ;  she  had  become  something  quite  new 
to  him  since  he  had  gained  this  knowledge  of  her — she  waa 
provocative,  suggestive,  even  romantic. 

"Good  evening.  Canon  Bonder."  She  did  not  smile  nor 
slacken  her  steps. 

"Isn't  this  a  lovely  evening?"  he  said.  "If  we  have  this 
weather  next  week  we  shall  be  lucky  indeed." 

"Yes,  shan't  we — shan't  we  ?"  she  said  nervously,  not  con- 
sidering him,  but  staring  straight  at  the  street  in  front  of 
her. 

"I  think  all  the  preparations  are  made,"  Bonder  went  on 


318  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

in  the  genial  easy  voice  that  he  always  adopted  with  children 
and  nervous  women.  "There  should  be  a  tremendous  crowd 
if  the  weather's  fina  People  already  are  pouring  in  from 
every  part  of  the  country,  they  tell  me — sleeping  anywhere, 
in  the  fields  and  the  hedges.  This  old  town  will  be  proud  of 
herself." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Mrs.  Brandon  looked  about  her  as  though  she 
were  trying  to  find  a  way  of  escape.  "I'm  so  glad  you  think 
that  the  weather  will  be  fine.  I'm  so  glad.  I  think  it  will 
myself.     I  hope  Miss  Ronder  is  well." 

"Very  well,  thank  you."  What  could  Morris  see  in  her, 
■with  her  ill-fitting  clothes,  her  skirt  trailing  a  little  in  the 
dust,  her  hat  too  big  and  heavy  for  her  head,  her  hair  escap- 
ing in  little  untidy  wisps  from  under  it?  She  looked  hot, 
too,  and  her  nose  was  shiny. 

"You're  coming  to  the  Ball  of  course,"  he  went  on, 
relieved  that  now  they  were  near  the  top  of  the  little  hill. 
"It's  to  be  the  best  Ball  the  Assembly  Rooms  have  seen  since 
— since  Jane  Austen." 

"Jane  Austen  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Brandon  vaguely. 

"Well,  her  time,  you  know,  when  dancing  was  all  the  rage. 
We  ought  to  have  more  dances  here,  I  think,  now  that  there 
are  so  many  young  people  about." 

"Yes,  I  agree  with  you.  My  daughter  is  coming  out  at  the 
Ball." 

"Oh,  is  she?  I'm  sure  she'll  have  a  good  tima  She's  so 
pretty.    Every  one's  fond  of  her." 

He  waited,  but  apparently  Mrs.  Brandon  had  nothing 
more  to  say.  There  was  a  pause,  then  Mrs.  Brandon,  as 
though  she  had  been  suddenly  pushed  to  it  by  some  one 
behind  her,  held  out  her  hand.  .  .  . 

"Good  evening.  Canon  Ronder." 

He  said  good-bye  and  watched  her  for  a  moment  as  she 
went  up  past  the  neat  little  villas,  her  dress  trailing  behind 
her,  her  hat  bobbing  with  every  step.  He  looked  up  at  the 
absurd  figure  on  the  top  of  the  monument,  the  gentleman  in 


THEEB  JUBILEE  319 

frock-coat  and  tall  hat  commemorated  there.  The  light  had 
left  him.  He  was  not  purple  now  but  a  dull  grey.  He,  too, 
had  doubtless  had  his  romance,  blood  and  tears,  anger  and 
agony  for  somebody.  How  hard  to  keep  out  of  such  things, 
and  yet  one  must  if  one  is  to  achieve  anything.  Keep  out  of 
it,  detached,  observant,  comfortable.  Strange  that  in  life 
comfort  should  be  so  difficult  to  attain  I 

Climbing  Green  Lane  he  was  surprised  to  feel  how  hot  it 
was.  The  trees  that  clustered  over  his  head  seemed  to  have 
gathered  together  all  the  heat  of  the  day.  Everything  con- 
spired to  annoy  him !  Bodger's  Street,  when  he  turned  into 
it,  was,  from  his  point  of  view,  at  its  very  worst,  crowded  and 
smelly  and  rocking  with  noise.  The  fields  behind  Bodger's 
Street  and  Canon's  Yard  sloped  down  the  hill  then  up  again 
out  into  the  country  beyond. 

It  was  here  on  this  farther  hill  that  the  gipsies  had  been 
allowed  to  pitch  their  caravans,  and  that  the  Fair  was  already 
preparing  its  splendours.  It  was  through  these  gates  that 
the  countrymen  would  penetrate  the  town's  defences,  just  as 
on  the  other  side,  low  down  in  Seatown  on  the  Pol's  banks, 
the  seafaring  men,  fishermen  and  sailors  and  merchantmen, 
were  gathering.  Bodger's  Street  was  already  alive  with  the 
anticipation  of  the  coming  week's  festivities.  Gas-jets  were 
flaming  behind  hucksters'  booths,  all  the  population  of  the 
place  was  out  on  the  street  enjoying  the  fine  summer  evening, 
shouting,  laughing,  singing,  quarrelling.  The  eifect  of  the 
street  illumined  by  these  uncertain  flares  that  leapt  unnatur- 
ally against  the  white  shadow  of  the  summer  sky  was  of  some- 
thing mediaeval,  and  that  impression  was  deepened  by  the 
overhanging  structure  of  the  Cathedral  that  covered  the  faint 
blue  and  its  little  pink  clouds  like  a  swinging  spider's  web. 

Render,  however,  was  not  now  thinking  of  the  town.  His 
mind  was  fixed  upon  his  approaching  interview  with  Foster. 
Foster  had  just  paid  a  visit,  quite  unofficial  and  on  a  private 
personal  basis,  to  Wistons,  to  sound  him  about  the  Pybus 
living  and  his  action  if  he  were  offered  it. 


320  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Render  understood  men  very  much  better  than  he  under- 
stood women.  He  understood  Foster  so  long  as  ambition  and 
religion  were  his  motives,  but  there  was  something  else  in  play 
that  he  did  not  understand.  It  was  not  only  that  Foster  did 
not  like  him — he  doubted  whether  Foster  liked  anybody  ex- 
cept the  Bishop — it  was  rather  perhaps  that  Foster  did  not 
like  himself.  Now  it  is  the  first  rule  of  fanaticism  that  you 
should  be  so  lost  in  the  impulse  of  your  inspiration  that  you 
should  have  no  power  left  with  which  to  consider  yourself  at 
alL  Foster  was  undoubtedly  a  fanatic,  but  he  did  consider 
himself  and  even  despised  himself.  Render  distrusted  self- 
contempt  in  a  man  simply  because  nothing  made  him  so  un- 
comfortable as  those  moments  of  his  own  when  he  wondered 
whether  he  were  all  that  he  thought  himself.  Those  moments 
did  not  last  long,  but  he  hated  them  so  bitterly  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  see  them  at  work  in  other  people.  Foster  was  the 
kind  of  fanatic  who  might  at  any  minute  decide  to  put  peas  in 
his  shoes  and  walk  to  Jerusalem ;  did  he  so  decide,  he  would 
abandon,  for  that  decision,  all  the  purposes  for  which  he 
might  at  the  time  be  working.  Render  would  certainly  never 
walk  to  Jerusalem. 

The  silence  and  peace  of  Canon*s  Yard  when  he  left 
Rodger's  Street  was  almost  dramatic  All  that  penetrated 
there  was  a  subdued  buzz  with  an  occasional  shrill  note  as  it 
might  be  on  a  penny  whistle.  The  Yard  was  dark,  lit  only  by 
a  single  lamp,  and  the  cobbles  uneven.  Lights  here  and  there 
set  in  the  crooked  old  windows  were  secret  and  uncommunica- 
tive: the  Cathedral  towers  seemed  immensely  tall  against  the 
dusk.  It  would  not  be  dark  for  another  hour  and  a  half,  but 
in  those  old  rooms  with  their  small  casements  light  was  thin 
and  uncertain. 

He  climbed  the  rickety  stairs  to  Foster's  rooms.  As  al- 
ways, something  made  him  pause  outside  Foster's  door  and 
listen.  All  the  sounds  of  the  old  building  seemed  to  come  up 
to  him;  not  human  voices  and  movements,  but  the  life  of  the 
old  house  itself,  the  creaking  protests  of  stairways,  the  sig^ 


THEKB 


JUBILEE  321 


of  reluctant  doors,  the  harping  groans  of  ill-mannered  win- 
dow-frames, the  coughs  and  wheezes  of  trembling  walls,  the 
shudders  of  ill-boding  banisters. 

"This  house  will  collapse,  the  first  gale,"  he  thought,  and 
suddenly  the  Cathedral  chimes,  striking  the  half -hour,  crashed 
through  the  wall,  knocking  and  echoing  as  though  their  clatter 
belonged  to  that  very  house. 

The  echo  died,  and  the  old  place  recommenced  its  mur- 
muring. 

Foster,  blinking  like  an  old  owl,  came  to  the  door  and, 
without  a  word,  led  the  way  into  his  untidy  room.  He  clei^red 
a  chair  of  papers  and  books  and  Render  sat  down. 

"Well  ?"  said  Render. 

Foster  was  in  a  state  of  overpowering  excitement,  but  he 
looked  to  Render  older  and  more  worn  than  a  week  ago. 
There  were  dark  pouches  under  his  eyes,  his  cheeks  were 
drawn,  and  his  untidy  grey  hair  seemed  thin  and  ragged — 
here  too  long,  there  showing  the  skull  guant  and  white  beneath 
it.  His  eyes  burnt  with  a  splendid  flame ;  in  them  there  was 
the  light  of  eternal  life. 

"Well  ?"  said  Render  again,  as  Foster  did  not  answer  his 
first  question. 

"He's  coming,"  Foster  cried,  striding  about  the  room,  his 
shabby  slippers  giving  a  ghostly  tip-tap  behind  him.  "He's 
coming!  Of  course  I  had  never  doubted  it,  but  I  hadn't 
expected  that  he  would  be  so  eager  as  he  is.  He  let  himself 
go  to  me  at  once.  Of  course  he  knew  that  I  wasn't  official, 
that  I  had  no  backing  at  all.  He's  quite  prepared  for  things 
to  go  the  other  way,  although  I  told  him  that  I  thought  there 
would  be  little  chance  of  that  if  we  all  worked  together.  He 
didn't  ask  many  questions.  He  knows  all  the  conditions  well. 
Since  I  saw  him  last  he's  gained  in  every  way — wiser,  better 
disciplined,  more  sure  of  himself — everything  that  I  have 
never  been.  ..."  Foster  paused,  then  went  on.  "I  think 
never  in  all  my  life  have  I  felt  affection  so  go  out  to  another 


322  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

human  being.  He  is  a  man  after  my  own  heart — a  child  of 
God,  an  inheritor  of  Eternal  Life,  a  leader  of  men " 

Render  interrupted  him. 

"Yes,  but  as  to  detail.  Did  you  discuss  that  ?  He  knew 
of  the  opposition  ?" 

Foster  waved  his  hand  contemptuously.  ''Brandon' 
What  does  that  amount  to?  Why,  even  in  the  week  that  I 
have  been  away  his  power  has  lessened.  The  hand  of  God 
is  against  him.  Everything  is  going  wrong  with  him.  I 
loathe  scandal,  but  there  is  actually  talk  going  on  in  the  town 
about  his  wife.  I  could  feel  pity  for  the  man  were  he  not  so 
dangerous." 

"You  are  wrong  there,  Foster,"  Render  said  eagerly. 
"Brandon  isn't  finished  yet — by  no  manner  of  means.  Ho 
still  has  most  of  the  town  behind  him  and  a  big  majority 
with  the  Cathedral  people.  He  stands  for  what  they  think 
or  don't  think — old  ideas,  conservatism,  every  established 
dogma  you  can  put  your  hand  on,  bad  music,  traditionalism, 
superstition  and  carelessness.  It  is  not  Brandon  himself  we 
are  fighting,  but  what  he  stands  for." 

Foster  stopped  and  looked  down  at  Ronder.  "You'll  for- 
give me  if  I  speak  my  mind,"  he  said.  "I'm  an  older  man 
than  you  are,  and  in  any  case  it's  my  way  to  say  what  I  think. 
You  know  that  by  this  time.  You've  made  a  mistake  in  allow- 
ing this  quarrel  with  Brandon  to  become  so  personal  a 
matter." 

Ronder  flushed  angrily. 

"Allowing!"  he  retorted.  "Ab  though  that  were  not  the 
very  thing  that  I've  tried  to  prevent  it  from  becoming.  But 
the  old  fool  has  rushed  out  and  shouted  his  grievances  to 
everybody.  I  suppose  you've  heard  of  the  ridiculous  quarrel 
we  had  coming  away  from  Carpledon.  The  whole  town 
knows  of  it.  There  never  was  a  more  ridiculous  scene.  He 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  screamed  like  a  madman. 
It's  my  belief  he  is  going  mad  I  A  precious  lot  I  had  to  do 
with  that    I  was  as  amiable  as  possible.    But  you  can't  deal 


THREE 


JUBILEE  323 


with  him.     His  conceit  and  his  obstinacy  are  monstrous." 

Nothing  was  more  irritating  in  Foster  than  the  way  that 
he  had  of  not  listening  to  excuses;  he  always  brushed  them 
aside  as  though  they  were  beneath  notice. 

"You  shouldn't  have  made  it  a  personal  thing,"  he  repeated. 
"People  will  take  sides — are  already  doing  so.  It  oughtn't 
to  be  between  you  two  at  all." 

"I  tell  you  it  is  not !"  Render  answered  angrily.  Then  with 
a  great  effort  he  pulled  himself  in.  "I  don't  know  what  has 
been  happening  to  me  lately,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "I've 
always  prided  myself  on  keeping  out  of  quarrels,  and  in  any 
case  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you.  I'm  sure  you're  right. 
It  ts  a  pity  that  the  thing's  become  personal.  I'll  see  what 
I  can  do." 

But  Foster  paid  as  little  attention  to  apologies  as  to  excuses. 

"That's  been  a  mistake,"  he  said;  "and  there  have  been 
other  mistakes.  You  are  too  personally  ambitious,  Bonder. 
We  are  working  for  the  glory  of  God  and  for  no  private  in- 
terests whatever." 

Bonder  smiled.  "You're  hard  on  me,"  he  said ;  "but  you 
shall  think  what  you  like.  I  won't  allow  that  I've  been  per- 
sonally ambitious,  but  it's  difficult  sometimes  when  you're 
putting  all  your  energies  into  a  certain  direction  not  to  seem 
to  be  serving  your  own  ends.  I  like  power — who  doesn't? 
But  I  would  gladly  sacrifice  any  personal  success  if  that  were 
needed  to  win  the  main  battle." 

"Winl"  Foster  cried.  "Win!  But  we've  got  to  win! 
There's  never  been  such  a  chance  for  us !  If  Brandon  wins 
now  our  opportunity  is  gone  for  another  generation.  What 
Wistons  can  do  here  if  he  comes !    The  power  that  he  will  be  I" 

Suddenly  there  came  into  Bonder's  mind  for  the  first  time 
the  thought  that  was  to  recur  to  him  very  often  in  the  future. 
Was  it  wise  of  him  to  work  for  the  coming  of  a  man  who  might 
threaten  his  own  power?  He  shook  that  from  him.  He 
would  deal  with  that  when  the  time  came.  For  the  present 
Brandon  was  enough.    .    .    . 


324  THE  CATHEDRAL 

"Now  as  to  detail   ..."  Ronder  said. 

They  sat  down  at  the  paper-littered  tabla  For  another 
hour  and  a  half  they  stayed  there,  and  it  would  have  been 
curious  for  an  observer  to  see  how,  in  this  business,  Ronder 
obtained  an  absolute  mastery.  Foster,  the  fire  dead  in  his 
eyes,  the  light  gone,  followed  him  blindly,  agreeing  to  every- 
thing, wondering  at  the  clearness,  order  and  discipline  of  his 
plans.  An  hour  ago,  treading  the  soil  of  his  own  country,  he 
had  feared  no  man,  and  his  feeling  for  Ronder  had  been  one 
half -contempt,  half-suspicion.  Now  he  was  in  the  other's 
hands.  This  was  a  world  into  which  he  had  never  won  right 
of  entry. 

The  Cathedral  chimes  struck  nine.  Ronder  got  up  and 
put  his  papers  away  with  a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction.  He 
knew  that  his  work  had  been  good. 

"There's  nothing  that  we've  forgotten.  Bentinck-Major 
will  be  caught  before  he  knows  where  he  is.  Ryle  too.  Let 
us  get  through  this  next  week  safely  and  the  battle's  won." 

Foster  blinked. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Yes,  yes.  Good-night, 
good-night,"  and  almost  pushed  Ronder  from  the  room. 

"I  don't  believe  he's  taken  in  a  word  of  it,"  Ronder  thought, 
as  he  went  down  the  creaking  stairs. 

At  the  top  of  Rodger's  Street  he  paused.  The  street  was 
Btill ;  the  sky  was  pale  green  on  the  horizon,  purple  overhead. 
The  light  was  still  strong,  but,  to  the  left  beyond  the  sloping 
fields,  the  woods  were  banked  black  and  sombre.  From  the 
meadow  in  front  of  the  woods  came  the  sounds  of  an  encamp- 
ment— women  shouting,  horses  neighing,  dogs  barking.  A 
few  lights  gleamed  like  red  eyes.  The  dusky  forms  of  cara- 
vans with  their  thick-set  chimneys,  ebony-coloured  against  the 
green  sky,  crouched  like  animals  barking.  A  woman  was 
singing,  men's  voices  took  her  up,  and  the  song  came  rippling 
across  the  little  valley. 

All  the  stir  of  an  inrading  world  was  there. 


CHAPTER  n 

FEIDAT,  JUNE  18 1  SHADOW  MEETS  SHADOW 


O'N  that  Friday  evening,  about  half-past  six  o'clock,  Arch- 
deacon Brandon,  just  as  he  reached  the  top  of  the  High 
Street,  saw  God. 

There  was  nothing  either  strange  or  unusual  about  this. 
Having  had  all  his  life  the  conviction  that  he  and  God  were 
on  the  most  intimate  of  terms,  that  God  knew  and  understood 
himself  and  his  wants  better  than  any  other  friend  that  he 
had,  that  just  as  God  had  definitely  deputed  him  to  work  out 
certain  plans  on  this  earth,  so,  at  times.  He  needed  his  own 
help  and  advice,  having  never  wavered  for  an  instant  in  the 
very  simplest  tenets  of  his  creed,  and  believing  in  every  word 
of  the  New  Testament  as  though  the  events  there  recorded  had 
only  a  week  ago  happened  in  his  own  town  under  his  own 
eyes — all  this  being  so,  it  was  not  strange  that  he  should  some- 
times come  into  close  and  actual  contact  with  his  Master. 

It  may  be  said  that  it  was  this  very  sense  of  contact,  con- 
tinued through  long  years  of  labour  and  success,  that  was  the 
original  foundation  of  the  Archdeacon's  pride.  If  of  late 
years  that  pride  had  grown  from  the  seeds  of  the  Archdeacon's 
own  self-confidence  and  appreciation,  who  can  blame  him  ? 

We  translate  more  easily  than  we  know  our  gratitude  to 
Gt)d  into  our  admiration  of  ourselves. 

Over  and  over  again  in  the  past,  when  he  had  been  labour- 
ing with  especial  fervour,  he  was  aware  that,  in  the  simplest 
sense  of  the  word,  God  was  "walking  with  him."  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  new  light  and  heat,  of  a  fresh  companionship ;  he 

326 


326  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

could  almost  translate  into  physical  form  that  comradeship  of 
which  he  was  so  tenderly  aware.  How  could  it  be  but  that 
after  such  an  hour  he  should  look  down  from  those  glorious 
heights  upon  his  other  less  favoured  fellow-companions  ?  Xo 
merit  of  his  own  that  he  had  been  chosen,  but  the  choice  had 
been  made. 

On  this  evening  he  was  in  sad  need  of  comfort.  Never  in 
all  his  past  years  had  life  gone  so  hardly  with  him  as  it  was 
going  now.  It  was  as  though,  about  three  or  four  months 
back,  he  had,  without  knowing  it,  stepped  into  some  new  and 
terrible  country.  One  feature  after  another  had  changed,  old 
familiar  faces  wore  new  unfamiliar  disguises,  every  step  that 
he  took  now  seemed  to  be  dangerous,  misfortune  after  mis- 
fortune had  come  to  him,  at  first  slight  and  even  ludicrous, 
at  last  with  Falk's  escape,  serious  and  bewildering.  Bewilder- 
ing! That  was  the  true  word  to  describe  his  case!  He  was 
like  a  man  moving  through  familiar  country  and  overtaken 
suddenly  by  a  dense  fog.  Through  it  all,  examine  it  as 
minutely  as  he  might,  he  could  not  see  that  he  had  committed 
the  slightest  fault. 

He  had  been  as  he  had  always  been,  and  yet  the  very  face 
of  the  to^\^l  was  changed  to  him,  his  son  had  left  him,  even  his 
wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  for  twenty  years,  was 
altered.  Was  it  not  natural,  therefore,  that  he  should  attribute 
all  of  this  to  the  only  new  element  that  had  been  introduced 
into  his  life  during  these  last  months,  to  the  one  human 
being  alive  who  was  his  declared  enemy,  to  the  one  man  who 
had  openly,  in  the  public  road,  before  witnesses,  insulted  him, 
to  the  man  who,  from  the  first  moment  of  his  coming  to  Pol- 
chester,  had  laughed  at  him  and  mocked  and  derided  him? 

To  Ronder !  To  Render !  The  name  was  never  out  of  his 
brain  now,  lying  there,  stirring,  twisting  in  his  very  sleep, 
sneering,  laughing  even  in  the  heart  of  his  private  prayers. 

He  was  truly  in  need  of  God  that  evening,  and  there,  at  the 
top  of  the  High  Street,  he  saw  Him  framed  in  all  the  colour 
and  glow  and  sparkling  sunlight  of  the  summer  evening,  fill- 


THEEB  JUBILEE  327 

ing  him  with  "warmth  and  new  courage,  surrounding  him,  en- 
veloping him  in  love  and  tenderness. 

Cynics  might  say  that  it  was  because  the  Archdeacon,  no 
longer  so  young  as  he  had  been,  was  blown  by  his  climb  of  the 
High  Street  and  stood,  breathing  hard  for  a  moment  before 
he  passed  into  the  Precincts,  lights  dancing  before  his  eyes  as 
they  will  when  one  is  out  of  breath,  the  ground  swaying  a 
little  under  the  pressure  of  the  heart,  the  noise  of  the  town 
rocking  in  the  ears. 

That  is  for  the  cynics  to  say.  Brandon  knew ;  his  experi- 
ences had  been  in  the  past  too  frequent  for  him,  even  now,  to 
make  a  mistake. 

Running  down  the  hill  went  the  High  Street,  decorated 
now  with  flags  and  banners  in  honour  of  the  great  event; 
cutting  the  sky,  stretching  from  Brent's  the  haberdasher's 
across  to  Adams'  the  hairdresser's,  was  a  vast  banner  of  bright 
yellow  silk  stamped  in  red  letters  with  "Sixty  Years  Our 
Queen.    God  Bless  Her !" 

Just  beside  the  Archdeacon,  above  the  door  of  the  book- 
shop where  he  had  once  so  ignominiously  taken  refuge,  was 
a  flag  of  red,  white  and  blue,  and  opposite  the  bookseller's,  at 
Gummridge's  the  stationer's,  was  a  little  festoon  of  flags  and 
a  blue  message  stamped  on  a  white  ground :  "God  Bless  Our 
Queen :  Long  May  She  Eeign !" 

All  down  the  street  flags  and  streamers  were  fluttering  in 
the  little  summer  breeze  that  stole  about  the  houses  and  win- 
dows and  doors  as  though  anxiously  enquiring  whether  people 
were  not  finding  the  evening  just  a  little  too  warm. 

People  were  not  finding  it  at  all  too  warm.  Every  one  was 
out  and  strolling  up  and  down,  laughing  and  whistling  and 
chattering,  dressed,  although  it  was  only  Friday,  in  nearly 
their  Sunday  best.  The  shops  were  closing,  one  by  one,  and 
the  throng  was  growing  thicker  and  thicker.  So  little  trafiio 
was  passing  that  young  men  and  women  were  already  march- 
ing four  abreast,  arm-in-arm,  along  the  middle  of  the  street. 


328  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

It  was  a  long  time — ten  years,  in  fact — since  Polchester  had 
seen  such  gaiety. 

This  was  behind  the  Archdeacon ;  in  front  of  him  was  the 
dark  archway  in  which  the  grass  of  the  Cathedral  square  was 
framed  like  the  mirrored  reflection  of  evening  light  where  the 
pale  blue  and  pearl  white  are  shadowed  with  slanting  green. 
The  peace  was  profound — nothing  stirred.  There  in  the  arch- 
way God  stood,  smiling  upon  His  faithful  servant,  only  as 
Brandon  approached  Him  passing  into  shadow  and  sunlight 
and  the  intense  blue  of  the  overhanging  sky. 

Brandon  tried  then,  as  he  had  often  tried  before,  to  keep 
that  contact  close  to  himself,  but  the  ecstatic  moment  had 
passed;  it  had  lasted,  it  seemed,  on  this  occasion  a  shorter 
time  than  ever  before.  He  bowed  his  head,  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment under  the  arch  offering  a  prayer  as  simple  and  innocent 
as  a  child  offers  at  its  mother's  knee,  then  with  an  instanta- 
neous change  that  in  a  more  complex  nature  could  have  meant 
only  hypocrisy,  but  that  with  him  was  perfectly  sincere,  he 
was  in  a  moment  the  hot,  angry,  mundane  priest  again,  doing 
battle  with  his  enemies  and  defying  them  to  destroy  him. 

Nevertheless  the  transition  to-night  was  not  quite  so  com- 
plete as  usual.  He  was  unliappy,  lonely,  and  in  spite  of  him- 
self afraid,  afraid  of  he  knew  not  what,  as  a  child  might  be 
when  its  candle  is  blown  out.  And  with  this  unhappiness  his 
thoughts  turned  to  homa  Falk's  departure  had  caused  him 
to  consider  his  wife  more  seriously  than  he  had  ever  done  in 
all  their  married  life  before.  She  had  loved  Falk ;  she  must 
be  lonely  without  him,  and  during  these  weeks  he  had  been 
groping  in  a  clumsy  baffled  kind  of  way  towards  some  expres- 
sion to  her  of  the  kindness  and  sympathy  that  he  was  feeling. 

But  those  emotions  do  not  come  easily  after  many  years 
of  disuse;  he  was  always  embarrassed  and  self-conscious  when 
he  expressed  affection.  He  was  afraid  of  her,  too,  thought 
that  if  ho  showed  too  much  kindness  she  might  suddenly  be- 
come emotional,  fling  her  arms  around  him  and  cover  his  face 
with  kissee — something  of  that  kind. 


THBEE 


JUBILEE  329 


Then  of  late  she  had  been  very  strange;  erer  since  that 
Sunday  morning  when  she  had  refused  to  go  to  Communion. 
.  .  .  Strange!  Women  are  strange!  As  different  from 
men  as  Frenchmen  are  from  Englishmen! 

But  he  would  like  to-night  to  come  closer  to  her.  Dimly, 
far  within  him,  something  was  stirring  that  told  him  that  it 
had  been  his  own  fault  that  during  all  these  years  she  had 
drifted  away  from  him.  He  must  win  her  back!  A  thing 
easily  done.  In  the  Archdeacon's  view  of  life  any  man  had  "^ 
only  got  to  whistle  and  fast  the  woman  came  running ! 

But  to-night  he  wanted  some  one  to  care  for  him  and  to  tell 
him  that  all  was  well  and  that  the  many  troubles  that  seemed 
to  be  crowding  about  him  were  but  imaginary  after  all. 

When  he  reached  the  house  he  found  that  he  had  only  just 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  He  ran  upstairs,  and  then,  when 
his  door  was  closed  and  he  was  safely  inside  his  bedroom,  he 
had  to  pause  and  stand,  his  hand  upon  his  heart.  How  it  was 
hammering!  like  a  beast  struggling  to  escape  its  cage.  His 
knees,  too,  were  trembling.  He  was  forced  to  sit  down.  After 
all,  he  was  not  so  young  as  he  had  been. 

These  recent  months  had  been  trying  for  him.  But  how 
humiliating !  He  was  glad  that  there  had  been  no  one  thero 
to  see  him.  He  would  need  all  his  strength  for  the  battle 
that  was  in  front  of  him.  Yes,  he  was  glad  that  there  had 
been  no  ojie  to  see  him.  He  would  ask  old  Puddifoot  to  look 
at  him,  although  the  man  was  an  ass.  He  drank  a  glass  of 
water,  then  slowly  dressed. 

He  came  downstairs  and  went  into  the  drawing-room.  His 
wife  was  there,  standing  in  the  shadow  by  the  window,  staring 
out  into  the  Precincts.  He  came  across  the  room  softly  to  her, 
then  gently  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

She  had  not  heard  his  approach.  She  turned  round  with 
a  sharp  cry  and  then  faced  him,  staring,  her  eyes  terrified. 
He,  on  his  side,  was  so  deeply  startled  by  her  alarm  that  he 
could  only  stare  back  at  her,  himself  frightened  and  feeling  a 
strange  clumsy  foolishness  at  her  alarm. 


880  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Broken  sentences  came  from  her;  "What  did  you — I 
Who — ?  You  shouldn't  have  done  that  You  frightened 
me." 

Her  voice  was  sharply  angry,  and  in  all  their  long  married 
life  together  he  had  never  before  felt  her  so  completely  a 
stranger;  ho  felt  as  though  he  had  accosted  some  unknown 
woman  in  the  street  and  been  attacked  by  her  for  his  famil- 
iarity. He  took  refuge,  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  con- 
fused, in  pomposity. 

"Really,  my  dear,  you'd  think  I  was  a  burglar.  Hum — ^yea. 
You  shouldn't  be  so  easily  startled." 

She  was  still  staring  at  him  as  though  even  now  she  did  not 
realise  his  identity.  Her  hands  were  clenched  and  her  breath 
came  in  little  hurried  gasps  as  though  she  had  been  running. 

"No — you  shouldn't  .  .  .  silly  .  .  .  coming  across  the 
room  like  that" 

"Very  well,  very  well,"  he  answered  testily.  "Why  isn't 
dinner  ready  ?    It's  ten  minutes  past  the  tima" 

She  moved  across  the  room,  not  answering  him. 

Suddenly  his  pomposity  was  gone.  He  moved  over  to  her, 
standing  before  her  like  an  overgrown  schoolboy,  looking  at 
her  and  smiling  uneasily. 

"The  truth  is,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that  I  can't  conceive 
my  entering  a  room  without  everybody  hearing  it.  No,  I  can't 
indeed,"  he  laughed  boisterously.  "You  tell  anybody  that  I 
crossed  a  room  without  your  hearing  it,  and  they  won't  believe 
you.    No,  they  wont." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  His  touch  tickled  her  cheek, 
but  she  made  no  movement.  He  felt,  as  his  hand  rested  on  her 
shoulder,  that  she  was  still  trembling. 

"Your  nerves  must  be  in  a  bad  way,"  ho  said.  "Why, 
you're  trembling  still  1    Why  don't  you  see  Puddifoot?" 

"No — no,"  she  answered  hurriedly.  "It  was  silly  of 
me "    Making  a  great  effort,  she  smiled  up  at  him. 

"Well,  how's  everything  going?" 

"Going?" 


THREE  JUBILEE  331 

"Yes,  for  the  great  day.    Is  everything  settled?" 

He  began  to  tell  her  in  the  old  familiar,  so  boring  way, 
every  detail  of  the  events  of  the  last  few  hours. 

"I  was  just  by  Sharps'  when  I  remembered  that  I'd  said 
nothing  to  Nixon  about  those  extra  seats  at  the  back  off  the 
nave,  so  I  had  to  go  all  the  way  round " 

Joan  came  in.  His  especial  need  of  some  one  that  night, 
rejected  as  it  had  been  at  once  by  his  wife,  turned  to  his 
daughter.  How  pretty  she  was,  he  thought,  as  she  came 
across  the  room  sunlit  with  the  deep  evening  gold  that  struck 
in  long  paths  of  light  into  the  darkest  shadows  and  corners. 

That  moment  seemed  suddenly  the  culmination  of  the  ad- 
vance that  they  had  been  making  towards  one  another  during 
the  last  six  months.  When  she  came  close  to  him,  he,  usually 
80  unobservant,  noticed  that  she,  too,  was  in  distress. 

She  was  smiling  but  she  was  unhappy,  and  he  suddenly 
felt  that  he  had  been  neglecting  her  and  letting  her  fight  her 
battles  alone,  and  that  she  needed  his  love  as  urgently  as  he 
needed  hers.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to  him. 
The  movement  Vv^as  so  unlike  him  and  so  unexpected  that  she 
hesitated  a  little,  then  happily  came  closer  to  him,  resting  her 
head  on  his  shoulder.  They  had  both,  for  a  moment,  for- 
gotten Mrs.  Brandon. 

"Tired  ?"  he  asked  Joan. 

"Yes.  I've  been  working  at  those  silly  old  flags  all  the 
afternoon.  Two  of  them  are  not  finished  now.  We've  got  to 
go  again  to-morrow  morning." 

"Everything  ready  for  the  Ball  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dress  is  lovely.  Oh,  mummy,  Mrs.  Sampson 
says  will  you  let  two  relations  of  theirs  sit  in  our  seat  on  Sun- 
day morning  ?  She  hadn't  known  that  they  were  coming,  and 
she's  very  bothered  about  it,  and  I'll  tell  her  whether  they  can 
in  the  morning." 

They  both  turned  and  saw  Mrs.  Brandon,  who  had  gone 
back  to  the  window  and  again  was  looking  at  the  Cathedral, 
now  in  deep  black  shadow. 


832  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Yes,  dear.     There'll  be  room.     There's  only  you  and 


if 


Joan  had  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress  a  letter.  As  they 
went  in  to  dinner  she  could  hear  its  paper  very  faintly  crackle 
against  her  hand.    It  was  from  Falk  and  was  as  follows : 

Dear  Joan — I  have  written  to  father  but  he  hasn't  answered. 
Would  you  find  out  what  he  thought  about  my  letter  and  what 
he  intends  to  do?  I  don't  mind  owning  to  you  that  I  miss  him 
terribly,  and  I  would  give  anything  just  to  see  him  for  five 
minutes.  I  believe  that  if  he  saw  me  I  could  win  him  over. 
Otherwise  I  am  very  happy  indeed.  We  are  married  and  live 
in  two  little  rooms  just  off  Baker  Street.  You  don't  know 
where  that  is,  do  you?  Well,  it's  a  very  good  place  to  be,  near 
the  park,  and  lots  of  good  shops  and  not  very  expensive.  Our 
landlady  is  a  jolly  woman,  as  kind  as  anything,  and  I'm  getting 
quite  enough  work  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door.  I  know 
more  than  ever  now  that  I've  done  the  right  thing,  and  father 
will  recognise  it,  too,  one  day.  How  is  he?  Of  course  my 
going  like  that  was  a  great  shock  to  him,  but  it  was  the  only 
way  to  do  it.  When  you  write  tell  me  about  his  health.  He 
didn't  seem  so  well  just  before  I  left.  Now,  Joan,  write  and 
tell  me  everything.  One  thing  is  that  he's  got  so  much  to  do 
that  he  won  t  have  much  time  to  think  about  me. — Your  affec- 
tionate brother,  Falk. 

This  letter,  which  had  arrived  that  morning,  had  given 
Joan  a  great  deal  to  think  about.  It  had  touched  her  very 
deeply.  Until  now  Falk  had  never  shown  that  he  had  thought 
about  her  at  all,  and  now  here  he  was  depending  on  her  and 
needing  her  help.  At  the  same  time,  she  had  not  the  slightest 
guide  as  to  her  father's  attitude.  Falk's  name  had  not  been 
mentioned  in  the  house  during  these  last  weeks,  and,  although 
she  realised  that  a  new  relationship  was  springing  up  between 
herself  and  her  father,  she  was  still  shy  of  him  and  conscious 
of  a  deep  gulf  between  them.  She  had,  too,  her  own  troubles, 
and,  try  as  she  might  to  beat  them  under,  they  came  up  again 
and  again,  confronting  her  and  demanding  that  she  should 
answer  them. 

Now  she  put  the  whole  of  that  aside  and  concentrated  on 


THREE 


JUBILEE  333 


her  father.  Watching  him  during  dinner,  he  seemed  to  her 
suddenly  to  have  become  older;  there  was  a  glow  in  her 
heart  as  she  thought  that  at  last  he  really  needed  her.  After 
all,  if  through  life  she  were  destined  to  be  an  old  maid — and 
that,  in  the  tragic  moment  of  her  youth  that  was  now  upon 
her,  seemed  her  inevitable  destiny — ^here  was  some  one  for 
whom  at  last  she  could  care. 

She  had  felt  before  she  came  down  to  dinner  that  she  was 
old  and  ugly  and  desperately  unattractive.  Across  the  dinner- 
table  she  flung  away,  as  she  imagined  for  ever,  all  hopes  for 
beauty  and  charm ;  she  would  love  her  father  and  he  should 
love  her,  and  every  other  man  in  the  world  might  vanish  for 
all  that  she  cared.  And  had  she  only  known  it,  she  had  never 
before  looked  so  pretty  as  she  did  that  night.  This  also  she 
did  not  know,  that  her  mother,  catching  a  sudden  picture  of 
her  under  the  candle-light,  felt  a  deep  pang  of  almost  agonis- 
ing envy.  She,  making  her  last  desperate  bid  for  love,  was 
old  and  haggard ;  the  years  for  her  could  only  add  to  that  age. 
Her  gambler's  throw  was  foredoomed  before  she  had  made  it. 

After  dinner,  Brandon,  as  always,  retired  into  the  deepest 
chair  in  the  drawing-room  and  buried  himself  in  yesterday's 
Times.  He  read  a  little,  but  the  words  meant  nothing  to 
him.  Jubilee !  Jubilee !  Jubilee !  He  was  sick  of  the  word. 
Surely  they  were  overdoing  it.  When  the  great  day  itself 
came  every  one  would  be  so  tired.  .  .  . 

He  pushed  the  paper  aside  and  picked  up  Punch.  Here, 
again,  that  eternal  word — "How  to  see  the  Procession.  By 
one  who  has  thought  it  out.  Of  course  you  must  be  out  early. 
As  the  traffic.  ..." 

Joke — Jinks:  Don't  meet  you  'ere  so  often  as  we  used  to, 
Binks,  eh? 

Binks:  Well — no.  It  don't  run  to  Hopera  Box  this  Season, 
because,  you  see,  we've  took  a  Window  for  this  'ere  Jubilee. 

Then,  on  one  page,  "The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter :  Jubilee 
'In  Anticipation  of  the  Naval  Review."    "Two 


834  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Jubilees  ?"  On  the  next  page  an  illustration  of  the  Jubilee 
Walrus.  On  the  next — "Oh,  the  Jubilee!"  On  the  next, 
Toby  M.P.'s  "Essence  of  Parliament,"  with  a  "Reed"  draw- 
ing of  "A  Naval  Field  Battery  for  the  Jubilee." 

The  paper  fell  from  his  hand.  During  these  last  days  ho 
had  had  no  time  to  read  the  paper,  and  he  had  fancied,  as  per- 
haps every  Polcastrian  was  just  then  fancying,  that  the  Jubi- 
lee was  a  private  affair  for  Polchester's  own  private  benefit. 
He  felt  suddenly  that  Polchester  was  a  small  out-of-the-way 
place  of  no  account ;  was  there  any  one  in  the  world  who  cared 
whether  Polchester  celebrated  the  Jubilee  or  not?  No- 
body. .  .  . 

He  got  up  and  walked  across  to  the  window,  pulling  the 
curtains  aside  and  looking  out  at  the  deep  purple  dusk  that 
stained  the  air  like  wine.  The  clock  behind  him  struck  a 
quarter  past  nine.  Two  tiny  stars,  like  inquisitive  mocking 
eyes,  winked  at  him  above  the  high  Western  tower.  Moved  by 
an  impulse  that  was  too  immediate  and  peremptory  to  be 
investigated,  he  went  into  the  hall,  found  his  hat  and  stick, 
opened  softly  the  door  as  though  he  were  afraid  that  some  one 
would  try  to  stop  him,  and  was  soon  on  the  grass  in  front 
of  the  Cathedral,  staring  about  him  as  though  he  had  awak- 
ened from  a  bewildering  dream. 

He  went  across  to  the  little  side-door,  found  his  key,  and 
entered  the  Cathedral,  leaving  the  gargoyle  to  grin  after  him, 
growing  more  alive,  and  more  malicious  too,  with  every  fad- 
ing moment  of  the  light. 

Within  the  Cathedral  there  was  a  strange  shadowy  glow  as 
though  behind  the  thick  cold  pillars  lights  were  burning.  He 
found  his  way,  stumbling  over  the  cane-bottomed  chairs  that 
were  piled  in  measured  heaps  in  the  side  aisle,  into  the  nave. 
Even  he,  used  to  it  as  he  had  been  for  so  many  years,  was 
thrilled  to-night.  There  was  a  movement  of  preparation 
abroad;  through  all  the  stillness  there  was  the  stir  of  life. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  armoured  knights  and  the  high- 
bosomed  ladies,  and  the  little  cupids  with  their  pursed  lips 


TH^E  JUBILEE  335 

and  puffing  cheeks,  and  the  angels  with  their  too  solid  wings 
were  watching  him  and  breathing  round  him  as  he  passed. 
Late  though  it  was,  a  dim  light  from  the  great  East  window 
fell  in  broad  slabs  of  purple  and  green  shadow  across  the  grey ; 
everything  was  indistinct ;  only  the  white  marble  of  the  Rere- 
dos  was  like  a  figured  sheet  hanging  from  wall  to  wall,  and 
the  gilded  trumpets  of  the  angels  on  the  choir-screen  stood 
out  dimly  like  spider  pattern.  He  felt  a  longing  that  the 
place  should  return  his  love  and  tenderness.  The  passion  of 
his  life  was  here ;  he  knew  to-night,  as  he  had  never  before, 
the  life  of  its  own  that  this  place  had,  and  as  he  stayed 
there,  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  nave,  some  doubt  stole 
into  his  heart  as  to  whether,  after  all,  he  and  it  were  one  and 
indivisible,  as  for  so  long  he  had  believed.  Take  this  away, 
and  what  was  left  to  him  ?  His  son  had  gone,  his  wife  and 
daughter  were  strange  to  him ;  if  this,  too,  went.  .   .   . 

The  sudden  chill  sense  of  loneliness  was  awful  to  him.  All 
those  naked  and  sightless  eyes  staring  from  those  embossed 
tombs  were  menacing,  scornful,  deriding. 

He  had  never  known  such  a  mood,  and  he  wondered  sud- 
denly whether  these  last  months  had  affected  his  brain. 

He  had  never  doubted  during  the  last  ten  years  his  power 
over  this  and  its  gratitude  to  him  for  what  he  had  done :  now, 
in  this  chill  and  green-hued  air,  it  seemed  not  to  care  for 
him  at  all. 

He  moved  up  into  the  choir  and  sat  down  in  his  familiar 
stall ;  all  that  he  could  see — his  eyes  seemed  to  be  drawn  by 
some  will  stronger  than  his  own — was  the  Black  Bishop's 
Tomb.  The  blue  stone  was  black  behind  the  gilded  grating, 
the  figure  was  like  a  moulded  shell  holding  some  hidden  form. 
The  light  died ;  the  purple  and  green  faded  from  the  nave — 
the  East  window  was  dark — only  the  white  altar  and  the 
whiter  shadows  above  it  hovered,  thinner  light  against  deeper 
grey.  As  the  light  was  withdrawn  the  Cathedral  seemed  to 
grow  in  height  until  Brandon  felt  himself  minute,  and  the 
pillars  sprang  from  the  floor  beneath  him  into  unseen  cano' 


836  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

pied  distanca  He  was  cold;  he  longed  suddenly,  with  a 
strange  terror  quite  new  to  him,  for  human  company,  and 
stumbled  up  and  hurried  down  the  choir,  almost  falling  over 
the  stone  steps,  almost  running  through  the  long,  dark,  de- 
serted nava  He  fancied  that  other  steps  echoed  his  own,  that 
voices  whispered,  and  that  figures  thronged  beneath  the  pillars 
to  watch  him  go.    It  was  as  though  he  were  expelled. 

Out  in  the  evening  air  he  was  in  his  own  world  again.  He 
was  almost  tempted  to  return  into  the  Cathedral  to  rid  him- 
self of  the  strange  fancies  that  he  had  had,  so  that  they  might 
not  linger  with  him.  He  found  himself  now  on  the  fartlier 
side  of  the  Cathedral,  and  after  walking  a  little  way  he  was 
on  the  little  narrow  path  that  curved  down  through  the  green 
banks  to  the  river.  Behind  him  was  the  Cathedral,  to  his 
right  Bodger's  Street  and  Canon's  Yard,  in  front  of  him  the 
bending  hill,  the  river,  and  then  the  farther  slips  where  the 
lights  of  the  gipsy  encampment  sparkled  and  shone.  Here 
the  air  was  lovely,  cool  and  soft,  and  the  stars  were  crowding 
into  the  summer  sky  in  their  myriads.  But  his  depression  did 
not  leave  him,  nor  his  loneliness.  He  longed  for  Falk  with  a 
great  longing.  He  could  not  hold  out  against  the  boy  for 
very  much  longer ;  but  even  then,  were  the  quarrel  made  up, 
things  would  not  now  be  the  same.  Falk  did  not  need  him 
any  more.    He  had  new  life,  new  friends,  new  work. 

"It's  my  nerves,"  thought  Brandon.  "I  will  go  and  see 
Puddifoot."  It  seemed  to  him  that  some  one,  and  perhaps 
more  than  one,  had  followed  him  from  the  Cathedral.  He 
turned  sharply  round  as  though  he  would  catch  somebody 
creeping  upon  him.  He  turned  round  and  saw  Samuel  Hogg 
standing  there. 

"Evening,  Archdeacon,"  said  Hogg. 

Brandon  said,  his  voice  shaking  with  anger:  ''What  are 
you  following  me  for?" 

"Following  you,  Archdeacon  V* 

"Yes,  following  me.  I  have  noticed  it  often  lately.  If 
you  have  anything  to  say  to  me  write  to  me." 


THREE 


JUBILEE  337 


"Following  yoTi?  Lord,  no!  What  makes  yon  think  of 
such  a  thing,  Archdeacon?  Can't  a  feller  enjoy  the  evenin' 
air  on  such  a  lovely  night  as  this  without  being  accused  of 
following  a  gentleman  ?" 

"You  know  that  you  are  trying  to  annoy  me."  Brandon 
had  pulled  himself  up,  but  his  hatred  of  that  grinning  face 
with  its  purple  veins,  its  piercing  eyes,  was  working  strongly 
upon  his  nerves,  so  that  his  hands  seemed  to  move  towards 
it  without  his  own  impulsion.  "You  have  been  trying  to 
annoy  me  for  weeks  now.  I'll  stand  you  no  longer.  If  I  have 
any  more  of  this  nuisance  I'll  put  it  into  the  hands  of  the 
police." 

Hogg  spat  out  complacently  over  the  grass.  "ISTow,  that  ts 
an  absurd  thing,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Because  a  man's  tired 
and  wants  some  air  after  his  day's  work  he's  accused  of  be- 
ing a  nuisance.  It's  a  bit  thick,  that's  what  it  is.  Now,  tell, 
Archdeacon,  do  you  happen  to  have  bought  this  'ere  town,  be- 
cause if  so  I  should  be  glad  to  know  it — and  so  would  a  num- 
ber of  others  too." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Brandon,  moving  away.  "If  you 
won't  go,  I  will." 

"There's  no  need  for  temper  that  I  can  see,"  said  Hogg. 
"No  call  for  it  at  all,  especially  that  we're  a  sort  of  relation 
now.  Almost  brothers,  seeing  as  how  your  son  has  married 
my  daughter." 

Lower  and  lower !    Lower  and  lower ! 

He  was  moving  in  a  world  now  where  figures,  horrible, 
obscene  and  foul,  could  claim  him,  could  touch  him,  had  their 
right  to  follow  him. 

"You  will  get  nothing  from  me,"  Brandon  answered.  "Yoii 
are  wasting  your  time." 

"Wasting  my  time  ?"  Hogg  laughed.  "Not  me !  I'm  en- 
joying myself.  I  don't  want  anything  from  you  except  just 
to  see  you  sometimes  and  have  a  little  chat.  That's  quite 
enough  for  me !  I've  taken  quite  a  liking  to  you,  Archdeacon, 
which  is  as  it  should  be  between  relations,  and,  often  enough, 


838  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

it  isn't  80.  I  like  to  see  a  proud  gentleman  like  yourself 
mixing  with  such  as  me.  It's  good  for  both  of  us,  as  you 
might  say." 

Brandon's  anger — always  dangerously  uncontrolled — rose 
until  it  seemed  to  have  the  whole  of  his  body  in  his  grasp, 
swaying  it,  ebbing  and  flowing  with  swift  powerful  current 
through  his  heart  into  his  brain.  Now  he  could  only  see  the 
flushed,  taunting  face,  the  little  eyes.  .    .   . 

But  Hogg's  hour  was  not  yet.  He  suddenly  touched  his 
cap,  smiling. 

"Well,  good  evening,  Archdeacon.  We'll  be  meeting 
again," — and  he  was  gone. 

As  swiftly  as  the  anger  had  flowed  now  it  ebbed,  leaving 
him  trembling,  shaking,  that  strange  sharp  pain  cutting  his 
brain,  his  heart  seeming  to  leap  into  his  head,  to  beat  there 
like  a  drum,  and  to  fall  back  with  heavy  thud  into  his  chest 
again.  He  stood  waiting  for  calm.  He  was  humiliated,  des- 
perately, shamefully.  He  could  not  go  on  here ;  he  must  leave 
the  place.  Leave  it  ?  Be  driven  away  by  that  scoundrel  ? 
Never !  He  would  face  them  all  and  show  them  that  he  was 
above  and  beyond  their  power. 

But  the  peace  of  the  evening  and  the  glory  of  the  stars 
gradually  stole  into  his  heart.  He  had  been  wrong,  terribly 
wrong.  His  pride,  his  conceit,  had  been  destroying  him. 
With  a  sudden  flash  of  revelation  he  saw  it.  He  had  trusted 
in  his  own  power,  put  himself  on  a  level  with  the  God  whom 
he  served.  A  rush  of  deep  and  sincere  humility  overwhelmed 
him.    He  bowed  his  head  and  prayed. 

Some  while  later  he  turned  up  the  path  towards  home.  The 
whole  sky  now  burnt  with  stars;  fires  were  a  dull  glow  across 
the  soft  gulf  of  grey,  the  gipsy  fires.  Once  and  again  a  dis- 
tant voice  could  be  heard  singing.  As  he  reached  the  corner 
of  the  Cathedral,  and  was  about  to  turn  up  towards  the  Pre- 
cincts, a  strange  sound  reached  his  ears.  He  stood  where  he 
was  and  listened.    At  first  he  could  not  define  what  he  heard 


THREE 


JUBILEE  33& 


— then  suddenly  he  realised.  Quite  close  to  him  a  man  was 
sobbing. 

There  is  something  about  the  sounds  of  a  man's  grief  that 
is  almost  indecent.  This  sobbing  was  pitiful  in  its  abandon- 
ment and  in  its  effort  to  control  and  stifle. 

Brandon,  looking  more  closely,  saw  the  dark  shadow  of  a 
man's  body  pressed  against  the  inside  buttress  of  the  corner 
of  the  Cathedral  wall.  The  shadow  crouched,  the  body  all 
drawn  together  as  though  folding  in  upon  itself  to  hide  its  own 
agony. 

Brandon  endeavoured  to  move  softly  up  the  path,  but  his 
step  crunched  on  some  twigs,  and  at  the  sharp  noise  the  sob- 
bing suddenly  ceased.    The  figure  turned. 

It  was  Morris.  The  two  men  looked  at  one  another  for  an 
instant,  then  Morris,  still  like  a  shadow,  vanished  swiftly  into 
the  dusk. 


CHAPTER  III 

BATURDAY,    JUNK    19  :   THE   BAJLL 

JOAN  was  in  her  bedroom  preparing  for  the  Ball.  It  was 
now  only  half-past  six  and  the  Ball  was  not  until  half- 
past  nine,  but  Mr.  Mumphit,  the  be-curled,  the  be-scented 
young  assistant  from  the  hairdresser's  in  the  High  Street  had 
paid  his  visit  very  early  because  he  had  so  many  other  heads 
of  so  many  other  young  ladies  to  dress  in  Polchester  that  eve- 
ning. So  Joan  sat  in  front  of  the  long  looking-glass,  a  towel 
still  over  her  shoulders,  looking  at  herself  in  a  state  of  ecstasy 
and  delight 

It  was  wrong  of  her,  perhaps,  to  feel  so  happy — she  felt 
that  deep  in  her  consciousness ;  wrong,  with  all  the  trouble  in 
the  house,  Falk  gone  in  disgrace,  her  father  unhappy,  her 
mother  so  strange;  but  to-night  she  could  not  help  herself. 
The  excitement  was  spluttering  and  crackling  all  over  the 
town,  the  wonderful  week  upon  which  the  whole  country  was 
entering,  the  Ball,  her  own  coming-out  Ball,  and  the  conscious- 
ness that  He  would  be  there,  and,  even  though  He  did  love 
another,  would  be  sure  to  give  her  at  least  one  dance;  these 
things  were  all  too  strong  for  her — she  was  happy,  happy, 
happy — her  eyes  danced,  her  toes  danced,  her  very  soul 
danced  for  sheer  delirious  joy.  Had  any  one  been  behind  her 
to  look  over  her  shoulder  into  the  glass,  he  would  have  seen  the 
reflection  in  that  mirror  of  one  of  the  prettiest  children  the 
wide  world  could  show;  especially  childish  she  looked  to-night 
with  her  dark  hair  piled  high  on  her  head,  her  eyes  wide  with 
wonder,  her  neck  and  shoulders  so  delicately  white  and  soft 
Behind  her,  on  the  bod,  was  the  dress,  on  the  dingy  carpet  a 

340 


JUBILEE  341 

pair  of  shoes  of  silver  tissue,  the  loveliest  things  she  had  ever 
had.  They  were  reflected  in  the  mirror,  little  blobs  of  silver, 
and  as  she  saw  them  the  colour  mounted  still  higaer  in  her 
cheeks.  She  had  no  right  to  them ;  she  had  not  paid  for  them. 
They  were  the  first  things  that  she  had  ever,  in  all  her  life, 
bought  on  credit.  Neither  her  father  nor  her  mother  knew 
anything  about  them,  but  she  had  seen  them  in  Harriott's 
shop-window  and  had  simply  not  been  able  to  resist  them. 

If,  after  all,  she  was  to  dance  with  Him,  that  made  any- 
thing right.  Were  she  sent  to  prison  because  she  could  not  pay 
for  them  it  would  not  matter.  She  had  done  the  only  possible 
thing. 

And  so  she  looked  into  the  mirror  and  saw  the  dark  glitter 
in  her  hair  and  the  red  in  her  cheeks  and  the  whiteness  of  her 
shoulders  and  the  silver  blobs  of  the  little  shoes,  and  she  was 
happy — chappy  with  an  almost  fearful  ecstasy. 

Mrs.  Brandon  also  was  in  her  bedroom.  She  was  sitting  on 
a  high  stiff-backed  chair,  staring  in  front  of  her.  She  had 
been  sitting  there  now  for  a  long  time  without  making  any 
movement  at  all.  She  might  have  been  a  dead  woman.  Her 
thin  hands,  with  the  sharply  marked  blue  veins,  were  clasped 
tightly  on  her  lap.  She  was  feeding,  feverishly,  eagerly  feed- 
ing upon  the  thought  of  Morris. 

She  would  see  him  that  evening,  they  would  talk  together, 
dance  together,  their  hands  would  bum  as  they  touched ;  they 
would  say  very  little  to  one  another ;  they  would  long,  agonize 
for  one  another,  to  be  alone  together,  to  be  far,  far  away 
from  everybody,  and  they  would  be  desperately  unhappy. 

She  wondered,  in  her  strange  kind  of  mouse-in-the-trap 
trance,  about  that  unhappiness.  Was  there  to  be  no  happiness 
for  her  anywhere?  Was  she  always  to  want  more  than  she 
got,  was  all  this  passion  now  too  late?  Was  it  real  at  all! 
Was  it  not  a  fever,  a  phantom,  a  hallucination  ?  Did  she  see 
Morris?  Did  she  not  rather  see  something  that  she  must 
seize  to  slake  her  burning  feverish  thirst  ?    For  one  moment 


342  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

she  had  known  happiness,  when  her  arms  had  gone  around  him 
and  she  had  been  able  to  console  and  comfort  him.  But  com- 
fort him  for  how  long  ?  Was  he  not  as  unhappy  as  she,  and 
would  they  not  always  be  unhappy?  Was  he  not  weighed 
down  by  the  sin  that  he  had  committed,  that  he,  as  he  thought, 
had  caused  her  to  commit  ?  ...  At  that  she  sprang  up  from 
the  chair  and  paced  the  room,  murmuring  aloud :  *'No,  no,  I 
did  it.  My  sin,  not  his.  I  will  care  for  him,  watch  over  him 
— watch  over  him,  care  for  him.  He  must  be  glad."  .  .  . 
She  sank  down  by  the  bed,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Brandon  was  in  his  study  finishing  his  letters.  But  be- 
hind his  application  to  the  notes  that  he  was  writing  his  brain 
was  moving  like  an  animal  steathily  investigating  an  un- 
lighted  house.  He  was  thinking  of  his  wife — and  of  himself. 
Even  as  he  was  writing  "And  therefore  it  seems  to  me,  my 
dear  Ryle,  that  with  regard  to  the  actual  hour  of  the  service, 

eight  o'clock "  his  inner  consciousness  was  whispering  to 

him.  "How  you  miss  Falk !  How  lonely  the  house  seems 
without  him !  You  thought  you  could  get  along  without  love, 
didn't  you  ?  or,  at  least,  you  were  not  aware  that  it  played  any 
very  great  part  in  your  life.  But  now  that  the  one  person 
whom  you  most  sincerely  loved  is  gone,  you  see  that  it  was  not 
to  be  so  simply  taken  for  granted,  do  you  not  ?  Love  must  be  ] 
worked  for,  sacrificed  for,  cared  for,  nourished  and  cherished.  (, 
You  want  some  one  to  cherish  now,  and  you  are  surprised 
that  you  should  so  want  .  .  .  yes,  there  is  your  wife — Amy 
.  .  .  Amy.  .  .  .  You  had  taken  her  also  for  granted.  But 
she  is  still  with  you.     There  is  time." 

His  wife  was  illuminated  with  tenderness.  He  put  down 
his  pen  and  stared  in  front  of  him.  What  he  wanted  and 
what  she  wanted  was  a  holiday.  They  had  been  too  long  here 
in  this  place.  That  was  what  he  needed,  that  was  the  expla- 
nation of  his  headaches,  of  his  tempers,  of  his  obsession  about 
Bonder. 

As  soon  as  this  Pybus  St  Anthony  affair  was  settled  he 


THREE  JUBILEE  343 

would  take  his  wife  abroad.  Just  the  two  of  them.  Another 
honeymoon  after  all  these  years.  Greece,  Italy  .  .  .  and 
who  knows  ?  Perhaps  he  would  see  Falk  on  his  way  through 
London  returning  .  .  .  Falk.  .  .  . 

He  had  forgotten  his  letters,  staring  in  front  of  him,  tap- 
ping the  table  with  his  pen. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  The  maid  said,  "A  lady 
to  see  you,  sir.  She  says  it's  important" — and,  before  he 
could  ask  her  name,  some  one  else  was  in  the  room  with  him 
and  the  door  was  closed  behind  her. 

He  was  puzzled  for  a  moment  as  to  her  identity,  a  rather 
seedy,  down-at-heels-looking  woman.  She  was  wearing  a 
rather  crumpled  white  cotton  dress.  She  carried  a  pink  para- 
sol, and  on  her  head  was  a  large  straw  hat  overburdened  with 
bright  red  roses.  Ah,  yes !  Of  course !  Miss  Milton — who 
was  the  Librarian.  Shabby  she  looked.  Come  down  in  the 
world.  He  had  always  disliked  her.  He  resented  now  the 
way  in  which  she  had  almost  forced  her  way  into  his  room. 

She  looked  across  at  him  through  her  funny  half-closed 
eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Archdeacon  Brandon,"  she  said,  "for 
entering  like  this  at  what  must  be,  I  fear,  an  unseemly  time. 
My  only  excuse  must  be  the  urgency  of  my  business." 

"I  am  very  sorry.  Miss  Milton,"  he  said  sternly;  "it  is 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  see  you  just  now  on  any  business 
whatever.  If  you  will  make  an  appointment  with  me  in 
writing,  I  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  her  eyes  closed  still  further. 
"I'm  very  sorry,  Archdeacon,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  would 
do  well  to  listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  At  those  words  of 
hers  he  had  once  again  the  sensation  of  being  pushed  down 
by  strong  heavy  hands  into  some  deep  mire  where  he  must 
have  company  with  filthy  crawling  animals — Hogg,  Davray, 
and  now  this  woman.  .  .  . 


344  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

''What  do  you  mean?"  ho  asked,  disgust  thickening  his 
voice.    "What  can  you  have  to  tell  me  ?" 

She  smiled.  She  crossed  the  floor  and  came  close  to  his 
desk.  Her  fingers  were  on  the  shabby  bag  that  hung  over  her 
arm. 

"I  was  greatly  puzzled,"  she  said,  "as»  to  what  was  the 
right  thing  to  do.  I  am  a  good  and  honest  woman,  Archdea- 
con, although  I  was  ejected  from  my  position  most  wrong- 
fully by  those  that  ought  to  have  known  better.  I  have  come 
down  in  the  world  through  no  fault  of  my  own,  and  there  are 
some  who  should  be  ashamed  in  their  hearts  of  the  way 
they've  treated  me.  However,  it's  not  of  them  I've  to  speak 
to-day."    She  paused. 

Brandon  drew  back  into  his  chair.  "Please  tell  me.  Miss 
Milton,  your  business  as  soon  as  possibla  I  have  much  to 
do." 

"I  will."  She  breathed  hard  and  continued.  "Certain 
information  was  placed  in  my  hands,  and  I  found  it  very 
difficult  to  decide  on  the  justice  of  my  course.  After  some 
hesitation  I  went  to  Canon  Render,  knowing  him  to  be  a  just 
man." 

At  the  name  "Render"  the  Archdeacon's  lips  moved,  but 
he  said  nothing. 

"I  showed  him  the  information  I  had  obtained.  I  asked 
him  what  I  should  do.    He  gave  me  advice  which  I  followed." 

"He  advised  you  to  come  to  me." 

Miss  Milton  saw  at  once  that  a  lie  here  would  serve  her 
well.  "He  advised  me  to  come  to  you  and  give  you  this  letter 
which  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word  belongs  to  you." 

She  fumbled  with  her  bag,  opened  it,  took  out  a  piece  of 
paper. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  she  continued,  her  eyes  never  for  an 
instant  leaving  the  Archdeacon's  face,  "that  tliis  letter  came 
into  my  hands  by  an  accident.  I  was  in  Mr.  Morris's  house 
at  the  time  and  the  letter  was  delivered  to  me  by  mistaka" 


THREB  JUBILEE  345 

"Mr.  Morris?"  Brandon  repeated.  'What  has  he  to  do 
with  this  affair?" 

Miss  Milton  rubbed  her  gloved  bands  together.  "Mrs. 
Brandon,"  she  said,  "has  been  very  friendly  with  Mr. 
Morris  for  a  long  time  past.  The  whole  town  has  been  talking 
of  it." 

The  clock  suddenly  began  to  strike  the  hour.  ]^o  word 
was  spoken. 

Then  Brandon  said  very  quietly,  "Leave  tbis  house,  Miss 
Milton,  and  never  enter  it  again.  If  I  have  any  further 
trouble  with  you,  the  police  will  be  informed." 

"Before  I  go.  Archdeacon,"  said  Miss  Milton,  also  very 
quietly,  "you  should  see  this  letter.  I  can  assure  you  that  I 
have  not  come  here  for  mere  words.  I  have  my  conscience  to 
satisfy  like  any  other  person.  I  am  not  asking  for  anything 
in  return  for  this  information,  although  I  should  be  perfectly 
justified  in  such  an  action,  considering  how  monstrously 
I  have  been  treated.  I  give  you  this  letter  and  you  can 
destroy  it  at  once.  My  conscience  will  be  satisfied.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  you  don't  read  it — well,  there  are  others  in 
the  town  who  must  see  it." 

He  took  the  letter  from  her. 

Deaeest — I  am  sending  this  by  a  safe  hand  to  tell  you  that 
I  cannot  possibly  get  down  to-night.  I  am  so  sorry  and  most 
dreadfully  disappointed,  but  I  will  explain  everything  when  we 
meet  to-morrow.  This  is  to  prevent  your  waiting  on  when  I'm 
not  coming. 


7t 


It  was  in  his  wife's  handwriting. 

"Dearest  .  .  .  cannot  possibly  get  down  tonight.  , 
In  his  wife's  handwriting.     Certainly.     Yes.     His  wife's. 
And  Bonder  had  seen  it. 

He  looked  across  at  Miss  Milton.  "This  is  not  my  wife's 
handwriting,"  he  said.  "You  realise,  I  hope,  in  what  a 
serious  matter  you  have  become  involved — by  your  hastj 
action,"  he  added. 


346  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Not  hasty,"  she  said,  moistening  her  lips  with  her  tongue. 
"Not  hasty,  Archdeacon.  I  have  taken  much  thought.  I 
don't  know  if  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  took  the  letter 
myself  at  the  door  from  the  hand  of  your  own  maid.  She  has 
been  to  the  Library  with  books.     She  is  well  known  to  me." 

He  must  exercise  enormous,  superhuman,  self-control. 
That  was  his  only  thought.  The  tide  of  anger  was  rising  in 
him  so  terribly  tliat  it  pressed  against  the  skin  of  his  forehead, 
drawn  tight,  and  threatened  to  split  it.  What  he  wanted  to 
do  was  to  rise  and  assault  the  woman  standing  in  front  of 
him.  His  hands  longed  to  take  her !  They  seemed  to  have 
life  and  volition  of  their  own  and  to  move  across  the  table  of 
their  own  accord. 

He  was  aware,  too,  once  more,  of  some  huge  plot  developing 
around  him,  some  supernatural  plot  in  which  all  the  elements 
too  were  involved — earth,  sun  and  sky,  and  also  every  one  in 
the  town,  down  to  the  smallest  child  there. 

He  seemed  to  see  behind  him,  just  out  of  his  sight,  a  tall 
massive  figure  directing  the  plot,  a  figure  something  like  him- 
self, only  with  a  heavy  black  beard,  cloudy,  without 
form-  .  .  . 

They  would  catch  him  in  their  plot  as  in  a  net,  but  he 
would  escape  them,  and  he  would  escape  them  by  wonderful 
calm,  and  self-control,  and  the  absence  of  all  emotion. 

So  that,  although  his  voice  shook  a  little,  it  was  quietly 
that  he  repeated : 

"This  is  not  in  my  wife's  handwriting.  You  know  the 
penalties  for  forgery."  Then,  looking  her  full  in  the  face,  he 
added,  "Penal  servitude." 

She  smiled  back  at  him. 

"I  am  sure.  Archdeacon,  that  all  I  require  is  a  full  investi- 
gation. These  wickednesses  are  going  on  in  this  town,  and 
those  principally  concerned  should  know.  I  have  only  done 
what  I  consider  my  duty." 

Her  eyes  lingered  on  his  face.  She  savoured  now  during 
these  moments  the  revenge  for  which,  in  all  these  months,  she 


THREE 


JUBILEE  347 


had  ceaselessly  longed.  He  had  moved  but  little,  he  bad  not 
raised  his  voice,  but,  watching  his  face,  she  had  seen  the 
agony  pass,  like  an  entering  guest,  behind  his  eyes.  That 
guest  would  remain.     She  was  satisfied. 

"I  have  done  my  duty.  Archdeacon,  and  now  I  will  wish 
you  good-evening." 

She  gave  a  little  bow  and  retired  from  the  room,  softly 
closing  the  door  behind  her. 

He  sat  there,  looking  at  the  letter.  .  .  . 

The  Assembly  Rooms  seemed  to  move  like  a  ship  on  a  sun- 
set sea.  Planging  from  the  ceiling  were  the  two  great  silver 
candelabra,  in  some  ways  the  most  famous  treasure  that  the 
town  possessed.  Fitted  now  with  gas,  they  were  nevertheless 
so  shaded  that  the  light  was  soft  and  mellow.  Round  the 
room,  beneath  the  portraits  of  the  town's  celebrities  in  their 
heavy  gold  frames,  the  lights  were  hidden  with  shields  of 
gold.  The  walls  were  ivory  white.  From  the  Minstrels' 
Gallery  flags  with  the  arms  of  the  Town,  of  the  Cathedral,  of 
the  St.  Leath  family  fluttered  once  and  again  faintly.  In  the 
Minstrels'  Gallery  the  band  was  playing  just  as  it  had  played 
a  hundred  years  ago.  The  shining  floor  was  covered  with 
moving  figures.  Every  one  was  there.  Under  the  Gallery, 
surveying  the  world  like  Boadicea  her  faithful  Britons,  was 
Lady  St.  Leath,  her  white  hair  piled  high  above  her  pink 
baby  face,  that  had  the  inquiring  haughty  expression  of 
a  cockatoo  wondering  whether  it  is  being  offered  a  lump  of 
sugar  or  an  insult.  On  either  side  of  her  sat  two  of  her 
daughters,  Lady  Rose  and  Lady  Mary,  plain  and  patient. 

Near  her,  in  a  complacent  chattering  row,  were  some  of  the 
more  important  of  the  Cathedral  and  County  set  There 
were  the  Marriotts  from  Maple  Durham,  fat,  sixty,  and 
amiable;  old  Colonel  Wotherston,  who  had  fought  in  the 
Crimea;  Sir  Henry  Byles  with  his  large  purple  nose;  little 
Major  Garnet,  the  kindest  bachelor  in  the  County;  the 
Marquesas,  who  had  more  pedigree  than  pennies ;  Mrs,  Samp- 


348  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

son  in  bright  lilac,  and  an  especially  bad  attack  of  neuralgia ; 
Mrs.  Combermere,  sheathed  in  cloth  of  gold  and  very  jolly; 
Mrs.  Ryle,  humble  in  grey  silk ;  Ellen  Stiles  in  cherry  colour; 
Mrs.  Trudon,  Mrs.  Forrester  and  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  their  chins 
nearly  touching  over  eager  confidences;  Dr.  Puddifoot,  still 
breathless  from  his  last  dance;  Bentinick-Major,  tapping  with 
his  patent-leather  toe  the  floor,  eager  to  be  at  it  again ;  Bran- 
ston  the  Mayor  and  ]\Irs.  Branston,  uncomfortable  in  a  kind 
of  dog-collar  of  diamonds;  Mrs.  Preston,  searching  for  nobil- 
ity ;  Canon  Martin ;  Dennison,  the  head-master  of  the  School ; 
and  many  others. 

It  was  just  then  a  Polka,  and  the  tune  was  so  alluring,  so 
entrancing,  that  the  whole  world  rose  and  fell  with  its 
rhythm. 

And  where  was  Joan?  Joan  was  dancing  with  the  Rev- 
erend Rex  Forsyth,  the  proposed  incumbent  of  Pybus  St 
Anthony.  Had  any  one  told  her  a  week  ago  that  she  would 
dance  with  the  elegant  Mr.  Forsyth  before  a  gathering  of  all 
the  most  notable  people  of  Polchester  and  Southern  Glebe- 
shire,  and  would  so  dance  without  a  tremor,  she  would  have 
derided  her  informant.  But  what  cannot  excitement  and 
happiness  do  ? 

She  knew  that  she  was  looking  nice,  she  knew  that  she  was 
dancing  as  well  as  any  one  else  in  the  room — and  Johnny  St. 
Leath  had  asked  her  for  two  dances  and  then  wanted  more, 
and  wanted  these  with  the  beautiful  Claire  Daubeney,  all 
radiant  in  silver,  standing  close  beside  him.  What,  then, 
could  all  the  Forsyths  in  the  world  matter  ?  Nevertheless  he 
was  elegant.  Very  smart  indeed.  Rather  like  a  handsome 
young  horse,  groomed  for  a  show.  His  voice  had  a  little  neigh 
in  it;  as  ho  talked  over  her  shoulder  he  gave  a  little  whinny 
of  pleasure.  She  found  it  very  difficult  to  think  of  him  as  a 
dergj'man  at  all. 

You  should  SEE  me  DANCE  the  POLKA, 
Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA. 


THREE 


JUBILEE  349 


Yes,  she  should.  And  he  should.  And  he  was  very  pleas- 
ant when  he  did  not  talk. 

"You  dance — very  well — Miss  Brandon." 

"Thank  you.     This  is  my  first  Ball." 

"Who  would— think  that?  Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA.  .  .  . 
Jolly  tu-une !" 

She  caught  glimpses  of  every  one  as  they  went  round.  Mrs. 
Gombermere's  cloth  of  gold,  Lady  St.  Leath's  white  hair. 
Poor  Lady  Mary — such  a  pity  that  they  could  not  do  some- 
thing for  her  complexion.  Spotty.  Joan  liked  her.  She  did 
much  good  to  the  poor  in  Seatown,  and  it  must  be  agony  to 
her,  poor  thing,  to  go  down  there,  because  she  was  so  terribly 
shy.  Her  next  dance  was  with  Johnny.  She  called  him 
Johnny.  And  why  should  she  not,  secretly  to  herself  ?  Ah, 
there  was  mother,  all  alone.  And  there  was  Mr.  Morris  com- 
ing up  to  speak  to  her.  Kind  of  him.  But  he  was  a  kind 
man.  She  liked  him.  Very  shy,  though.  All  the  nicest 
people  seemed  to  be  shy — except  Johnny,  who  wasn't  shy  at 
all. 

The  music  stopped  and,  breathless,  they  stayed  for  a 
moment  before  finding  two  chairs.  Now  was  coming  the 
time  that  she  so  greatly  disliked.  Whatever  to  say  to  Mr. 
Forsyth  ? 

They  sat  down  in  the  long  passage  outside  the  ballroom. 
The  floor  ran  like  a  ribbon  from  under  their  feet  into  dim 
shining  distance.  Or  rather,  Joan  thought,  it  was  like  a 
stream,  and  on  either  side  the  dancers  were  sitting,  dabbling 
their  toes  and  looking  self-conscious. 

"Do  you  like  it  where  you  are  ?"  Joan  asked  of  the  shining 
black  silk  waistcoat  that  gleamed  beside  her. 

"Oh,  you  know  .  .  ."  neighed  Mr.  Forsyth.  "It's  all 
right,  you  know.    The  old  Bishop's  kind  enough." 

"Bishop  Clematis?"  said  Joan. 

"Yes.  There  ain't  enough  to  do,  you  know.  But  I  don't 
expect  I'll  be  there  long.  No,  I  don't  .  .  .  Pity  poor  Mor- 
rison at  Pybus  dying  like  that" 


350  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Joan  of  course  at  once  understood  the  allusion.  She  also 
understood  that  Mr.  Forsyth  was  begging  her  to  bestow  upon 
him  any  little  piece  of  news  that  she  might  have  obtained. 
But  that  seemed  to  her  mean — spying — spying  on  her  own 
father.    So  she  only  said : 

"You're  very  fond  of  riding,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Love  it,"  said  Mr.  Forsyth,  whinnying  so  exactly  like  a 
happy  pony  that  Joan  jumped.     "Don't  you  ?" 

"I've  never  been  on  horseback  in  my  life,"  said  Joan.  "I'd 
like  to  try." 

"Never  in  your  life?"  Mr.  Forsyth  stared.  "Why,  I  was 
on  a  pony  before  I  was  three.  Fact.  Good  for  a  clergyman, 
riding " 

"I  think  it's  nearly  time  for  the  next  dance,"  said  Joan. 
*^ould  you  kindly  take  me  back  to  my  mother  ?" 

She  was  conscious,  as  they  plunged  down-stream,  of  all  the 
burning  glances.  She  held  her  head  high.  Her  eyes  flashed. 
She  was  going  to  dance  with  Johnny,  and  they  could  look  as 
much  as  they  liked. 

Mr.  Forsyth  delivered  her  to  her  mother  and  went  canter- 
ing off.  Joan  sat  down,  smoothed  her  dress  and  stared  at  the 
vast  shiny  lake  of  amber  in  which  the  silver  candelabra  were 
reflected  like  little  islands.  She  looked  at  her  mother  and 
was  suddenly  sorry  for  her.  It  must  be  dull,  when  you  were 
as  old  as  mother,  coming  to  these  dances — and  especially  when 
you  had  so  few  friends.  Her  mother  had  never  made  many 
friends. 

"Wasn't  that  Mr.  Morris  who  was  talking  to  you  just 
now  ?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I  like  him.    He  looks  kind." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"And  where's  father?" 

"Over  there,  talking  to  Lady  St.  Leath." 

She  looked  across,  and  there  ho  was,  so  big  and  tall  and 


THEEE  JUBILEE  351 

fine,  so  splendid  in  his  grand  clothes.  Her  heart  swelled  with 
pride. 

"Isn't  he  splendid,  mother,  dear  ?" 

"Who?" 

"Father!" 

"Splendid?" 

"Yes;  doesn't  he  look  splendid  to-night?  Better  looking 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  room  put  together  ?"  (Johnny  wasn't 
good-looking.     Better  than  good-looking.) 

"Oh — look  splendid.     Yes.     He's  a  very  handsome  man." 

Joan  felt  once  again  that  little  chill  with  which  she  was  so 
often  familiar  when  she  talked  with  her  mother — a  sudden 
withdrawal  of  sympathy,  a  pushing  Joan  away  with  her 
hand. 

But  never  mind — there  was  the  music  again,  and  here,  oh, 
here,  was  Johnny !  Someone  had  once  called  him  Tubby  in 
her  hearing,  and  how  indignant  she  had  been !  He  was  per- 
haps a  little  on  the  fat  side,  but  strong  with  it.  .  .  .  She  went 
off  with  him.    The  waltz  began. 

She  sank  into  sweet  delicious  waters — ^waters  that  rocked 
and  cradled  her,  hugged  her  and  caressed  her.  She  was  con- 
scious of  his  arm.  She  did  not  speak  nor  did  he.  Years  of 
utter  happiness  passed.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  take  her,  as  Mr.  Eorsyth  had  done,  into  the 
public  glare  of  the  passage,  but  up  a  crooked  staircase  behind 
the  Minstrels'  Gallery  into  a  little  room,  cool  and  shaded, 
where,  in  easy-chairs,  they  were  quite  alone. 

He  was  shy,  fingering  his  gloves.  She  said  (just  to  make 
conversation)  : 

"How  beautiful  Miss  Daubeney  is  looking !" 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Johnny.  "I  don't.  I'm  sick  of 
that  girl.  She's  the  most  awful  bore.  Mother's  always  shov- 
ing her  at  my  head.  She's  been  staying  with  us  for  months. 
She  wants  me  to  marry  her  because  she's  rich.  But  we've  got 
plenty,  and  I  wouldn't  marry  her  anyway,  not  if  we  hadn't 
a  penny.    Because  she's  a  bore,  and  because" — ^his  voice  be- 


363  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

came  suddenlj  loud  and  commanding — "I'm  going  to  marry 
you." 

Something — some  lovely  bird  of  Paradise,  some  splendid 
coloured  breeze,  some  carpet  of  magic  pattern — came  and 
swung  Joan  up  to  a  high  tree  loaded  with  golden  apples. 
There  she  swung — singing  her  heart  out  Johnny's  voice 
came  up  to  her. 

"Because  I'm  going  to  marry  you." 

"What  V'  she  called  down  to  him. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  you.  I  knew  it  from  the  very  first 
second  I  saw  you,  that  day  after  Cathedral — from  the  very 
first  moment  I  knew  it  I  wanted  to  ask  you  right  away  at 
once,  but  I  thought  I'd  do  the  thing  properly,  so  I  went  away, 
and  I've  been  in  Paris  and  Rome  and  all  over  the  place,  and 
I've  thought  of  you  the  whole  time — every  minute.  Then 
mother  made  a  fuss  about  this  Daubeney  girl — my  not  being 
here  and  all  that — so  I  thought  I'd  come  home  and  tell  you 
I  was  going  to  marry  you." 

"Oh,  but  you  can't"  Joan  swung  down  from  her  apple- 
tree.     "You  and  me?    Why,  what  would  your  mother  say?" 

"It  isn't  a  case  of  would  but  will"  Johnny  said.  "Alother 
will  bo  very  angry — and  for  a  considerable  time.  But  that 
makes  no  difference.    Mother's  mother  and  I'm  myself," 

"It's  impossible,"said  Joan  quickly,  "from  every  point  of 
view.  Do  you  know  what  my  brother  has  done?  I'm  proud 
of  Falk  and  love  him ;  but  you're  Lord  St.  Leath,  and  Falk 
has  married  the  daughter  of  Hogg,  the  man  who  keeps  a 
public-house  down  in  Seatown." 

"I  heard  of  that,"  said  Johnny.  "But  what  does  that 
matter?  Do  you  know  what  I  did  last  year?  I  crossed  the 
Atlantic  as  a  stoker  in  a  Cunard  boat  Mother  never  knew 
until  I  got  back,  and  wasn't  she  furious !  But  the  world's 
changing.  There  isn't  going  to  he  any  class  difference  soon — 
none  at  all.  You  take  my  word.  Ix>ok  at  the  AmericiinsI 
They're  the  people!  We'll  be  like  them  one  day.  .  .  .  But 
what's  all  this?"  he  suddenly  said.    "I'm  going  to  marry  you 


THKBB  JUBILEE  »63 

and  you're  going  to  marry  me.     You  love  me,  don't  yout" 

"Yes,"  said  Joan  faintly. 

"Well,  then.  I  knew  you  did.  I'm  going  to  kiss  you." 
He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her  very  gently. 

"Oh,  how  I  love  you !"  he  said,  "and  how  good  I'll  be  to 
you!" 

"But  we  must  be  practical,"  said  Joan  wildly.  *'How  can 
we  marry?  Everything's  against  it.  I've  no  money.  I'm 
nobody.    Your  mother " 

"Now  you  just  leave  my  mother  alone.  Leave  me  to 
mrnage  her — I  know  all  about  that " 

"I  won't  be  engaged  to  you,"  Joan  said  firmly,  "not  for 
ages  and  ages — not  for  a  year  anyway." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Johnny  indifferently.  "You  can 
settle  it  any  way  you  please — but  no  one's  going  to  marry  you 
but  me,  and  no  one's  going  to  marry  me  but  you." 

He  would  have  kissed  her  again,  but  Mrs.  Preston  and  a 
young  man  came  in. 

"!Now  you  shall  come  and  speak  to  my  mother,"  he  said 
to  her  as  they  went  ouL  "There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
Just  say  'Bo'  to  her  as  you  would  to  a  goose,  and  she'll 
answer  all  right." 

"You  won't  say  anything "  began  Joan. 

"About  us  ?  All  right.  That's  a  secret  for  the  present ; 
but  we  shall  meet  every  day,  and  if  there's  a  day  we  don't 
meet  you've  got  to  write.    Do  you  agree?" 

Whether  she  agreed  or  no  was  uncertain,  because  they  were 
now  in  a  cloud  of  people,  and,  a  moment  later,  were  face  to 
face  with  the  old  Countess. 

She  was  pleased,  it  at  once  appeared.  She  was  in  a  gra- 
cious mood ;  people  had  been  pleasant  enough — that  is,  they 
had  been  obsequious  and  flattering.  Also  her  digestion  was 
behaving  properly;  those  new  pills  that  old  Puddifoot  had 
given  her  were  excellent.  She  therefore  received  Joan  very 
graciously,  congratulated  her  on  her  appearance,  and  asked 
her  where  her  elder  sister  was.     When  Joan  explained  that 


354  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


she  had  no  sister  Lady  St  Leath  appeared  vexed  with  her,  as 
though  it  had  been  a  piece  of  obvious  impertinence  on  her 
part  not  to  produce  a  sister  instantly  when  she  had  asked  for 
one.  However,  Lady  Mary  was  kind  and  friendly  and  mad© 
Joan  sit  beside  her  for  a  little.     Joan  thought,  "I'd  like  to 

have  you  for  a  sister  one  day,  if — if — ever "  and  allowed 

her  thoughts  to  go  no  farther. 

Thence  she  passed  into  the  company  of  Mrs.  Combermere 
and  Ellen  Stiles.  It  seemd  to  her — but  it  was  probably  her 
fancy — that  as  she  came  to  them  they  were  discussing  some- 
thing that  was  not  for  her  ears.  It  seemed  to  her  that  thej 
swiftly  changed  the  conversation  and  greeted  her  with  quite 
an  unusual  warmth  of  affection.  For  the  first  time  that  eve- 
ning a  sudden  little  chill  of  foreboding,  whence  she  knew  not, 
seemed  to  touch  her  and  shade,  for  an  instant,  her  marvelloua 
happiness. 

Mrs.  Combermere  was  very  sweet  to  her  indeed,  quite  as 
though  she  had  been,  but  now,  recovering  from  an  alarming 
illness.  Her  bass  voice,  strong  thick  hands  and  stiff  wiry  hair 
went  so  incongruously  with  her  cloth  of  gold  that  Joan  could 
not  help  smiling. 

"You  look  very  happy,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Combermere  said. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Joan.  "How  can  I  help  it,  my 
first  Ball  ?" 

Mrs.  Combermere  kicked  her  trailing  garments  with  her 
foot,  just  like  a  dame  in  a  pantomima  "Well,  enjoy  yourself 
as  long  as  you  can.  You're  looking  very  pretty.  The  pret- 
tiest girl  in  the  room.  I've  just  been  saying  so  to  Ellen — 
haven't!,  Ellen?" 

Ellen  Stiles  was  at  that  moment  making  herself  agreeable 
to  the  Mayoress,  who  was  sitting  lonely  and  uncomfortable 
(weighed  down  with  longing  for  sleep)  on  a  little  gilt  chair. 

"I  was  just  saying  to  Mrs.  Branston,"  Miss  Stiles  said, 
turning  round,  "that  the  time  one  has  to  be  careful  with 
children  after  whooping-cough  is  when  they  seem  practically 
well.     Her  little  boy  has  just  been  ill  with  it,  and  she  says 


THEEE  JUBILEE  355 

he's  recovered ;  but  tliat*s  the  time,  as  I  tell  her,  when  nine 
out  of  ten  children  die — just  when  you  think  you're  safe." 

"Oh  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Branston,  turning  towards  them  her 
full  anxious  eyes.  "You  do  alarm  me,  Miss  Stiles !  And  I've 
been  letting  Tommy  quite  loose,  as  you  may  say,  these  last 
few  days — with  his  appetite  back  and  all,  there  seemed  no 
danger." 

"Well,  if  you  find  him  feverish  when  you  get  home  to- 
night," said  Ellen,  "don't  be  surprised.  All  the  excitement 
of  the  Jubilee  too  will  be  very  bad  for  him." 

At  that  moment  Canon  Bonder  came  up.  Joan  looked  and 
at  once,  at  the  sight  of  the  round  gleaming  spectacles,  the 
smiling  mouth,  the  full  cheeks  puffed  out  as  though  he  were 
blowing  perpetual  bubbles  for  his  own  amusement,  felt  her 
old  instinct  of  repulsion.  This  man  was  her  father's  enemy, 
and  so  hers.  All  the  town  knew  now  that  he  was  trying  to 
ruin  her  father  so  that  he  might  take  his  place,  that  he 
laughed  at  him  and  mocked  him. 

So  fierce  did  she  feel  that  she  could  have  scratched  his 
cheeks.  He  was  smiling  at  them  all,  and  at  once  was  engaged 
in  a  wordy  duel  with  Mrs.  Combermere  and  Miss  Stiles, 
They  liked  him ;  every  one  in  the  town  liked  him.  She  heard 
his  praises  sung  by  every  one.  Well,  she  would  never  sing 
them.    She  hated  him. 

And  now  he  was  actually  speaking  to  her.  He  had  the 
impertinence  to  ask  her  for  a  dance. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  engaged  for  the  next  and  for  the  one  after 
that,  Canon  Bonder,"  she  said. 

"Well,  later  on  then,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Wliat  about  an 
extra  ?" 

Her  dark  eyes  scorned  him. 

"We  are  going  home  early,"  she  said.  She  pretended  to 
examine  her  programme.  "I'm  afraid  I  have  not  one  before 
we  go." 

She  spoke  as  coldly  as  she  dared.  She  felt  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Combermere  and  Ellen  Stiles  upon  her.    How  stupid  of 


856  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

her  I  She  had  shown  them  what  her  feelings  were,  and  now 
they  would  chatter  the  more  and  laugh  about  her  fighting  her 
father's  battles.  Why  had  she  not  shown  her  indiiference, 
her  complete  indifference? 

He  was  smiling  still — not  discomfited  by  her  rudeness. 
He  said  something — something  polite  and  outrageously  kind 
— and  then  young  Charles  D'Arcy  came  up  to  carry  her  off 
for  the  Lancers. 

An  hour  later  her  cup  of  happiness  was  completely  filled. 
She  had  danced,  during  that  hour,  four  times  with  Johnny ; 
every  one  must  be  talking.  Lady  St.  Leath  must  be  furious 
(she  did  not  know  that  Boadicea  had  been  playing  whist  with 
old  Colonel  Wotherston  and  Sir  Henry  Byles  for  the  last  ever 
80  long). 

She  would  perhaps  never  have  such  an  hour  in  all  her  life 
again.  This  thing  that  he  so  wildly  proposed  was  impossible 
— utterly,  completely  impossible;  but  what  was  not  impos- 
sible, what  was  indeed  certain  and  sure  and  beyond  any  sort 
of  question,  was  that  she  loved  Johnny  St.  Leath  with  all  her 
heart  and  soul,  and  would  so  love  him  until  the  day  of  her 
death.  Life  could  never  be  purposeless  nor  mean  nor  empty 
for  her  again,  while  she  had  that  treasure  to  carry  about  with 
her  in  her  heart.  Meanwhile  she  could  not  look  at  him  and 
doubt  but  that,  for  the  moment  at  any  rate,  he  loved  her — 
and  there  was  something  simple  and  direct  nbout  Johnny  as 
there  was  about  his  dog  Andrew,  that  made  his  words,  few 
and  clumsy  though  they  might  be,  most  strangely  convincing. 

So,  almost  dizzy  with  happiness,  she  climbed  the  stair 
behind  the  Gallery  and  thought  that  she  would  escape  for  a 
moment  into  the  little  room  where  Johnny  had  proposed  to 
her,  and  sit  there  and  grow  calm.  She  looked  in.  Some  one 
was  there.  A  man  sitting  by  himself  and  staring  in  front  of 
him.  She  saw  at  once  that  ho  was  in  some  great  troubla 
His  hands  were  clenched,  his  face  puckered  and  set  with  pain. 
Then  she  saw  that  it  was  her  father. 


THREE  JUBILEE  357 

He  did  not  move;  lie  might  have  been  a  block  of  stone 
shining  in  the  dimness.  Terrified,  she  stood,  herself  not 
moving.  Then  she  came  forward.  She  put  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  father — father,  what  is  it  V  She  felt  his  body  trem- 
bling beneath  her  touch — he,  the  proudest,  finest  man  in  the 
country.  She  put  her  arm  round  his  neck.  She  kissed  him. 
His  forehead  was  damp  with  sweat.  His  body  was  shaking 
from  head  to  foot.  She  kissed  him  again  and  again,  kneeling 
beside  him. 

Then  she  remembered  where  they  were.  Some  one  might 
come.    No  one  must  see  him  like  that 

She  whispered  to  him,  took  his  hands  between  hers. 

"Let's  go  home,  Joan,"  he  said.     "I  want  to  go  home.*' 

She  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  together  they  went 
down  the  little  stairs. 


CHAPTER  rV 

SUNDAY,  JUNE  20  :      IN  THE  BEDEOOM 

BRANDON  had  been  talking  to  the  Precentor  at  the  far 
end  of  the  ballroom,  when  suddenly  Ronder  had  ap- 
peared in  their  midst.  Appeared  the  only  word !  And  Bran- 
don, armoured,  he  had  thought,  for  every  terror  that  that 
night  might  bring  to  him,  had  been  suddenly  seized  with  the 
lust  of  murder.  A  lust  as  dominating  as  any  other,  that 
swept  upon  him  in  a  hot  flaming  tide,  lapped  him  from  head 
to  foot.  It  was  no  matter,  this  time,  of  words,  of  senses,  of 
thoughts,  but  of  his  possession  by  some  other  man  who  filled 
his  brain,  his  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  stomach,  his  heart;  one 
second  more  and  he  would  have  flung  himself  upon  that  smil- 
ing face,  those  rounded  limbs;  ho  would  have  caught  that 
white  throat  and  squeezed  it — squeezed  .  .  .  squeezed.  .  .  . 

The  room  literally  swam  in  a  tide  of  impulse  that  carried 
him  against  Render's  body  and  left  him  there,  breast  beating 
against  breast.  .  .  . 

He  turned  without  a  word  and  almost  ran  from  the  place. 
He  passed  through  the  passages,  seeing  no  one,  conscious  of 
neither  voices  nor  eyes,  climbing  stairs  that  he  did  not  feel, 
sheltering  in  that  lonely  little  room,  sitting  there,  his  hands 
to  his  face,  shuddering.  The  lust  slowly  withdrew  from  him, 
leaving  him  icy  cold.  Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  saw  his 
daughter  and  clung  to  her — as  just  then  he  would  have  clung 
to  anybody — for  safety. 

Had  it  come  to  this  then,  that  he  was  mad  ?  All  that  night, 
lying  on  his  bed,  he  surveyed  himself.  That  was  the  way  that 
men  murdered.    No  longer  could  ho  claim  control  or  mastery 

35» 


JUBILEE  359 

of  his  body.  God  had  deserted  him  and  given  him  over  to 
devils. 

His  son,  his  wife,  and  now  God.  His  loneliness  was  ter- 
rible. And  he  could  not  think.  He  must  think  about  this 
letter  and  what  he  should  do.  He  could  not  think  at  all.  He 
was  given  over  to  devils. 

After  Matins  in  the  Cathedral  next  day  one  thought  came 
to  him.  He  would  go  and  see  the  Bishop.  The  Bishop  had 
come  in  from  Carpledon  for  the  Jubilee  celebrations  and  was 
staying  at  the  Deanery.  Brandon  spoke  to  him  for  a  moment 
after  Matins  and  asked  him  whether  he  might  see  him  for 
half  an  hour  in  the  afternoon  on  a  matter  of  great  urgency. 
The  Bishop  asked  him  to  come  at  three  o'clock. 

Seated  in  the  Dean's  library,  with  its  old-fashioned  cosiness 
— its  book-shelves  and  the  familiar  books,  the  cases,  between 
the  high  windows,  of  his  precious  butterflies — Brandon  felt, 
for  the  first  time  for  many  days,  a  certain  calm  descend  upon 
him.  The  Bishop,  looking  very  frail  and  small  in  the  big 
arm-chair,  received  him  with  so  warm  an  affection  that  he 
felt,  in  spite  of  his  own  age,  like  the  old  man's  son. 

"My  lord,"  he  began  with  difficulty,  moving  his  big  limbs 
in  his  chair  like  a  restless  schoolboy,  "it  isn't  easy  for  me  to 
come  to-day.  There's  no  one  in  the  world  I  could  speak  to 
except  yourself.    I  find  it  difficult  even  to  do  that" 

"My  son,"  said  the  Bishop  gently,  "I  am  a  very,  very  old 
man.  I  cannot  have  many  more  months  to  live.  When  one  is 
\  as  near  to  death  as  I  am,  one  loves  everything  and  everybody, 
because  one  is  going  so  soon.    You  needn't  be  afraid." 

And  in  his  heart  he  must  have  wondered  at  the  change  in 
this  man  who,  through  so  many  years  now,  had  come  to  him 
with  so  much  self-confidence  and  assurance. 

"I  have  had  much  trouble  lately,"  Brandon  went  on.  "But 
I  would  not  have  bothered  you  with  that,  knowing  as  I  do 
all  that  you  have  to  consider  just  now,  were  it  not  that  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  seem  to  have  lost  control  and  to  be 


360  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

heading  toward  some  great  disaster  that  may  bring  scandal 
not  only  on  myself  but  on  the  Church  as  well." 

"Tell  me  your  trouble,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"Nine  months  ago  I  seemed  to  be  at  the  very  height  of  mj 
powers,  my  happiness,  my  usefulness."  Brandon  paused. 
Was  it  really  only  nine  months  back,  that  other  time?  "I 
had  no  troubles.  I  was  confident  in  myself,  my  health  was 
good,  my  family  were  happy.  I  seemed  to  have  many  friends. 
.  .  .  Then  suddenly  everything  changed.  I  don't  want  to 
seem  false,  my  lord,  in  anything  that  I  may  say,  but  it  was 
literally  as  though  in  the  course  of  a  night  all  my  happiness 
forsook  ma 

"It  began  with  my  boy  being  sent  down  from  Oxford.  I 
have  only  one  boy,  as  I  think  your  lordship  knows.  He  was 
— he  is,  in  spite  of  what  has  happened — very  dear  to  ma** 
Brandon  paused. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"After  that  everything  began  to  go  wrong.  Little  things, 
little  tiny  things — one  after  another.  Some  one  came  to  this 
town  who  almost  at  once  seemed  to  put  himself  into  opposi- 
tion to  me."    Brandon  paused  once  more. 

The  Bishop  said  again :  "Yes,  I  know." 

"At  first,"  Brandon  went  on,  "I  didn't  realise  this.  I  was 
preoccupied  with  my  work.  It  had  never,  at  any  time  in  my 
life,  seemed  to  me  healthy  to  consider  about  other  people's 
minds,  what  they  were  thinking  or  imagining.  There  is  quite 
enough  work  to  do  in  the  world  without  that.  But  soon  I 
was  forced  to  consider  this  man's  opposition  to  me.  It  came 
before  me  in  a  thousand  little  ways.  The  attitude  of  the 
Chapter  changed  to  me — especially  noticeable  at  one  of  the 
Chapter  meetings.  I  don't  want  to  make  my  story  so  long, 
my  lord,  that  it  will  tire  you.  To  cut  it  short — a  day  came 
when  my  boy  ran  off  to  London  with  a  town  girl,  the  daughter 
of  the  landlord  of  one  of  the  more  disreputable  public-houses. 
That  was  a  terrible,  devastating  blow  to  ma  I  have  quite 
literally  not  been  the  same  man  since.    I  was  determined  not 


THBEB  JUBILEE  361 

to  allow  it  to  turn  me  from  my  proper  work.  I  still  loved  the 
boj ;  he  had  not  behaved  dishonourably  to  the  girl.  He  has 
now  married  her  and  is  earning  his  living  in  London.    If  that 

had  been  the  only  blow "    He  stopped,  cleared  his  throat, 

and,  turning  excitedly  towards  the  Bishop,  almost  shouted: 

"But  it  is  not !  It  is  not,  my  lord !  My  enemy  has  never 
ceased  his  plots  for  one  instant.  It  was  he  who  advised  my 
boy  to  run  off  with  this  girl.  He  has  turned  the  whole  town 
against  me;  they  laugh  at  me  and  mock  me!  And  now  he 
.  .  .  now  he  .  .  ."  He  could  not  for  a  moment  find  breath. 
He  exercised  an  impulse  of  almost  superhuman  self-control, 
bringing  his  body  visibly  back  into  bounds  again.  He  went 
on  more  quietly: 

"We  are  in  opposite  camps  over  this  matter  of  the  Pybus 
living — we  are  in  opposition  over  almost  every  question  that 
arises  here.  He  is  an  able  man.  I  must  do  him  that  justice. 
He  can  plot  .  .  .  he  can  scheme  .  .  .  whereas  I  .  .  ." 
Brandon  beat  his  hands  desperately  on  his  knees. 

"It  is  not  only  this  man !"  he  cried,  "not  only  this !  It  is 
as  though  there  were  some  larger  conspiracy,  something  from 
Heaven  itself.  God  has  turned  His  face  away  from  me  when 
I  have  served  Him  faithfully  all  my  days.  No  one  has 
served  Him  more  whole-heartedly  than  I.  He  has  been  my 
only  thought,  His  glory  my  only  purpose.  Nine  months  ago  I 
had  health,  I  had  friends,  I  had  honour.  I  had  my  family — 
now  my  health  is  going,  my  friends  have  forsaken  me,  I  am 
mocked  at  by  the  lowest  men  in  the  town,  my  son  has  left  me, 
my — my  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  bending  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  Bishop  said:  "My  dear  friend,  you  are  not  alone  in 
this.    We  have  all  been  tried,  like  this — tested " 

"Tested !"  Brandon  broke  out.  "Why  should  I  be  tested  ? 
What  have  I  done  in  all  my  life  that  is  not  acceptable  to 
God  ?  What  sin  have  I  committed !  What  disloyalty  have  I 
shown?  But  there  is  something  more  that  I  must  tell  you, 
my  lord — the  reason  why  I  have  come  to  you  to-day.    Canon 


362  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Render  and  I — you  must  have  known  of  whom  I  have  been 
speaking — had  a  violent  quarrel  one  afternoon  on  the  way 
home  after  luncheon  with  you  at  Carpledon.  This  quarrel 
became,  in  one  way  or  another,  the  town's  property.  Ronder 
affected  to  like  me,  but  it  was  impossible  now  for  him  to  hide 
his  real  intentions  towards  me.  This  thing  began  to  be  an 
obsession  with  me.  I  tried  to  prevent  this.  I  knew  what  the 
danger  of  such  obsessions  can  be.  But  there  was  something- 
else.    My  wife "  he  paused — went  on.    *'My  wife  and  1, 

my  lord,  have  lived  together  in  perfect  happiness  for  twenty 
years.  At  least  it  had  seemed  to  me  to  be  perfect  happiness. 
She  began  to  behave  strangely.  She  was  not  herself.  Un- 
doubtedly the  affair  of  our  son  disturbed  her  desperately. 
She  seemed  to  avoid  me,  to  escape  from  me  when  she  could. 
This,  coming  with  my  other  troubles,  made  me  feel  as  though 
I  were  in  some  horrible  dream,  as  though  the  very  furniture 
of  our  homo  and  the  appearance  of  the  streets  were  changing. 
I  began  to  be  afraid  sometimes  that  I  might  be  going  mad. 
I  have  had  bad  headaches  that  have  made  it  difficult  for  me  to 
think.  Then,  only  last  night,  a  woman  brought  me  a  letter. 
I  wish  you  most  earnestly  to  believe,  my  lord,  that  I  believe 
my  wife  to  be  absolutely  loyal  to  me — loyal  in  every  possible 
sense  of  the  word.  The  letter  purported  to  be  in  her  hand- 
writing. And  in  this  matter  also  Canon  Ronder  had  had  some 
hand.  The  woman  admitted  that  she  had  been  first  to  Canon 
Ronder  and  that  he  had  advised  her  to  bring  it  to  me." 

The  Bishop  made  a  movement. 

"You  will,  of  course,  say  nothing  of  this,  my  lord,  to 
Canon  Ronder.  I  have  come  privately  to  ask  your  prayers 
for  me  and  to  have  your  counsel.  I  am  making  no  complaint 
against  Canon  Ronder.  I  must  see  tliis  thing  through  by 
myself.  But  last  night,  when  my  mind  was  filled  with  this 
letter,  I  found  myself  suddenly  next  to  Canon  Ronder,  and  I 
had  a  murderous  impulse  that  was  so  fierce  and  sudden  in  its 

power  that  I "  he  broke  off,  shuddering.     Then  cried, 

suddenly  stretching  out  his  hands: 


THKEB  JUBILEE  363 

"Oh,  my  lord,  pray  for  me,  pray  for  me  I  Help  me !  I 
don't  know  what  I  do — I  am  given  over  to  the  powers  of 
Hell!" 

A  long  silence  followed.    Then  the  Bishop  said : 
"You  have  asked  me  to  say  nothing  to  Canon  Ronder,  and 
of  course  I  must  respect  your  confidence.    But  the  first  thing 
that  I  would  say  to  you  is  that  I  think  that  what  you  feared 
has  happened — that  you  have  allowed  this  thought  of  him  to 
become  an  obsession  to  you.    The  ways  of  God  are  mysterious  ^ 
and  past  our  finding  out;  but  all  of  us,  in  our  lives,  have 
known   that   time    when   everything   was   suddenly    turned  J 
against  us — our  work,  those  whom  we  love,  our  health,  even  j 
our  belief  in  God  Himself.    My  dear,  dear  friend,  I  myself 
have  known  that  several  times  in  my  own  life.    Once,  when  I    1 
was  a  young  man,  I  lost  an  appointment  on  which  my  whole    ' 
heart  was  set,  and  lost  it,  as  it  seemed,  through  an  extreme  . 
injustice.     It  turned  out  afterwards  that  my  losing  that  *- 
was  one  of  the  most  fortunate  things  for  me.     Once  my 
dear  wife  and  I  seemed  to  lose  all  our  love  for  one  another, 
and  I  was  assailed  with  most  desperate  temptation — and  the 
end  of  that  was  that  we  loved  and  understood  one  another  as 
we  had  never  done  before.    Once — and  this  was  the  most  ter- 
rible period  of  my  life,  and  it  continued  over  a  long  time — I 
lost,  as  it  seemed,  completely  all  my  faith  in  God.    I  came  out 
of  that  believing  only  in  the  beauty  of  Christ's  life,  clinging 
to  that,  and  saying  to  myself,  'Such  a  friend  have  I — then  life 
is  not  all  lost  to  me' — and  slowly,  gradually,  I  came  back 
into  touch  with  Him  and  knew  Him  as  I  had  never  known 
Him  before,  and,  through  Him,  once  again  God  the  Father. 
And  now,  even  in  my  old  age,  temptation  is  still  with  me.    I 
long  to  die.    I  am  tempted  often  to  look  upon  men  and  women 
as  shadows  that  have  no  longer  any  connection  with  me.     I 
am  very  weak  and  feeble  and  I  wish  to  sleep.  .  .  .  But  the 
love  of  God  continues,  and  through  Jesus  Christ,  the  love  of 
men.     It  is  the  only  truth — love  of  God,  love  of  man — the 
f  rest  is  fantasy  and  unreality.     Look  up,  my  son,  bear  this 


J64  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

with  patience.  God  is  standing  at  your  shoulder  and  will  be 
with  you  to  the  end.  This  is  training  for  you.  To  show  you, 
perhaps,  that  all  through  life  you  have  missed  the  most 
important  thing.  You  are  learning  through  this  trouble  your 
need  of  others,  your  need  to  love  them,  and  that  they  should 
\  love  you — the  only  lesson  worth  learning  in  life.  .  .  ."  ^^ 
The  Bishop  came  over  to  Brandon  and  put  his  hand  on  his 
head.  Strange  peace  come  into  Brandon's  heart,  not  from  the 
old  man's  words,  but  from  the  contact  with  him,  the  touch  of 
his  thin  trembling  hand.  The  room  was  filled  with  peaca 
Ronder  was  suddenly  of  little  importance.  The  Cathedral 
faded.    For  a  time  he  rested. 

For  the  rest  of  that  day,  until  evening,  that  peace  stayed 
with  him.  With  it  still  in  his  heart  he  came,  late  that  night, 
into  their  bedroom.  Mrs.  Brandon  was  in  bed,  awake,  staring 
in  front  of  her,  not  moving.  He  sat  down  in  the  chair  beside 
the  bed,  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  took  hers. 

"Amy,  dear,"  he  said,  "I  want  us  to  have  a  little  talk." 

Her  little  hand  lay  still  and  hot  in  his  large  cool  ona 

"I've  been  very  unhappy,"  he  went  on  with  difficulty, 
"lately  about  you — I  have  seen  that  you  yourself  are  not 
happy.  I  want  you  to  be.  I  will  do  anything  that  is  in  my 
power  to  make  you  so !" 

"You  would  not,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him,  **have 
troubled  to  think  of  me  had  not  your  own  private  aflFairs  gone 
wrong  and — had  not  Falk  left  us !" 

The  sound  of  her  hostility  irritated  him  against  his  will ;  ho 
beat  the  irritation  down.  He  felt  suddenly  very  tired,  quite 
exhausted.  He  had  an  almost  irresistible  temptation  to  go 
down  into  his  dressing-room,  lie  on  his  sofa  there,  and  go  in- 
stantly to  sleep. 

"That's  not  quite  fair.  Amy,"  he  said.  "But  we  won't 
dispute  about  that.  I  want  to  know  why,  after  our  being 
happy  for  twenty  years,  something  now  has  come  in  between 


THEEB  JUBILEE  365 

us  or  seems  to  have  done  so ;    I  want  to  clear  that  away  if  I 
can,  so  that  we  can  be  as  we  were  before." 

Be  as  they  were  before !  At  the  strange,  ludicrous  irony  of 
that  phrase  she  turned  on  her  elbow  and  looked  at  him,  stared 
at  him  as  though  she  could  not  see  enough  of  him. 

"Why  do  you  think  that  there  is  anything  the  matter?" 
she  asked  softly,  almost  gently. 

"Why,  of  course  I  can  see,"  he  said,  holding  her  hand  more 
tightly  as  though  the  sudden  gentleness  in  her  voice  had 
touched  him.  "When  one  has  lived  with  some  one  a  long 
time,"  he  went  on  rather  awkwardly,  "one  notices  things.  Of 
course  I've  seen  that  you  were  not  happy.  And  Falk  leaving 
us  in  that  way  must  have  made  you  very  miserable.  It  made 
me  miserable  too,"  he  added,  suddenly  stroking  her  hand  a 
little. 

She  could  not  bear  that  and  very  quietly  withdrew  her 
hand. 

"Did  it  really  hurt  you,  Talk's  going?"  she  asked,  still 
staring  at  him. 

"Hurt  me  ?"  he  cried,  staring  back  at  her  in  utter  aston- 
ishment.    "Hurt  me  ?    Why — wh}- " 

"Then  why,"  she  went  on,  "didn't  you  go  up  to  London 
after  him?" 

The  question  was  so  entirely  unexpected  that  he  could  only 
repeat : 

"Why?  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter  now,"  she  said,  wearily  turn- 
ing away. 

"Perhaps  I  did  wrong.  I  think  perhaps  I've  done  wrong 
in  many  ways  during  these  last  years.  I  am  seeing  many 
things  for  the  first  time.  The  truth  is  I  have  been  so  absorbed 
in  my  work  that  I've  thought  of  nothing  else.  I  took  it  too 
much  for  grant^i  that  yaa  were  happy  because  I  was  happy. 
And  now  I  wan  I;  to  make  it  right.  I  do  indeed.  Amy.  Tell 
me  what's  the  matter." 

She  said  nothing.     He  waited  for  a  long  time.     Her  in- 


366  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

mobility  always  angered  him.     He  said  at  last  more  im- 
patiently. 

"Please  tell  me,  Amy,  what  you  have  against  me," 

"I  have  nothing  against  you." 

"Then  why  are  things  wrong  between  us  ?" 

"Are  things  wrong?" 

"You  know  they  are — ever  since  that  morning  when  you 
wouldn't  come  to  Holy  Communion." 

"I  was  tired  that  morning." 

"It  is  more  than  tiredness,"  he  said,  with  sudden  impa- 
tience, beating  upon  the  counterpane  with  his  fist.  "Amy 
— ^you're  not  behaving  fairly.  You  must  talk  to  m&  I  insist 
on  it." 

She  turned  once  more  towards  him. 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  say  V 

"Why  you're  unhappy." 

"But  if  I  am  not  unhappy  V* 

"You  are." 

"But  suppose  I  say  that  I  am  not  ?" 

"You  are.     You  are.    You  are  I"  he  shouted  at  her. 

"Very  well,  then,  I  am." 

"Why  are  you  ?" 

"Who  is  happy  really?  At  any  rate  for  more  than  a 
moment.    Only  very  thoughtless  and  silly  peopla" 

"You're  putting  me  off."  He  took  her  hand  again.  "I'm 
to  blame,  Amy — to  blame  in  many  ways.  But  people  are 
talking." 

She  snatched  her  hand  away. 

"People  talking?  Who?  .  .  .  But  as  though  that  matr 
tered." 

"It  does  matter.  It  has  gone  far — much  farther  than  I 
thought." 

She  looked  at  him  then,  quickly,  and  turned  her  face  away 
again. 

"Who's  talking?    And  what  are  they  saying?" 

"They  ar»  saying "     He  broke  off.     What  were  thej 


THREE 


JUBILEE  367 


saying  ?    Until  the  arrival  of  that  horrible  letter  he  had  not 
realised  that  they  were  saying  anything  at  all. 

"Don't  think  for  a  single  moment,  Amy,  that  I  pay  the 
slightest  attention  to  any  of  their  talk.  I  would  not  have 
bothered  you  with  any  of  this  had  it  not  been  for  something 
else — of  which  I'll  speak  in  a  moment.  If  everything  is  right 
between  us — between  you  and  me — then  it  doesn't  matter  if 
the  whole  world  talks  until  it's  blue  in  the  face." 

"Leave  it  alone,  then,"  she  said.    "Let  them  talk." 

Her  indifference  stung  him.  She  didn't  care,  then,  whether 
things  were  right  between  himself  and  her  or  no  ?  It  was  the 
same  to  her.  She  cared  so  little  for  him.  .  .  .  That  sudden 
realisation  struck  him  so  sharply  that  it  was  as  though  some 
one  had  hit  him  in  the  back.  For  so  many  years  he  had 
taken  it  for  granted  .  .  .  taken  something  for  granted  that 
was  not  to  be  so  taken.  Very  dimly  some  one  was  approach- 
ing him — that  dark,  misty,  gigantic  figure — blotting  out  the 
light  from  the  windows.  That  figure  was  becoming  day  by 
day  more  closely  his  companion. 

Looking  at  her  now  more  intently,  and  with  a  new  urgency, 
he  said : 

"Some  one  brought  me  a  letter,  Amy.  They  said  it  was  a 
letter  of  yours." 

She  did  not  move  nor  stir.  Then,  after  a  long  silence,  she 
said,  "Let  me  see  it." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  and  produced  it.  She  stretched  out 
her  hand  and  took  it  She  read  it  through  slowly.  "You 
think  that  I  wrote  this  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  know  that  you  did  not." 

"To  whom  was  it  supposed  to  be  written  ?" 

"To  Morris  of  St.  James'." 

She  nodded  her  head.  "Ah,  yes.  We're  friends.  That's 
why  they  chose  him.  Of  course  it's  a  forgery,"  she  added — 
"a  very  clever  one." 

"What  I  don't  understand,"  he  said  eagerly,  at  his  heart 
the  strangest  relief  that  he  did  not  dare  to  stop  to  analyse,  "is 


868  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

why  any  one  should  have  troubled  to  do  this — the  risk,  the 
danger " 

"You  have  enemies,"  she  said.  "Of  course  you  know  that. 
People  who  are  jealous." 

"One  enemy,"  he  answered  fiercely.  "Ronder.  The 
woman  had  been  to  him  with  this  letter  before  she  came  to 
ma" 

"The  woman  I    What  woman  ? 

"The  woman  who  brought  it  to  me  was  a  Miss  Milton — a 
wretched  creature  who  was  once  at  the  Library." 

"And  she  had  been  with  this  to  Canon  Eonder  before  she 
came  to  you  1" 

"Yes." 

"Ah !" 

Then  she  said  very  quietly: 

"And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  about  the  letter  ?" 

"I  will  do  whatever  you  wish  me  to  do.  What  I  would  like 
to  do  is  to  leave  no  step  untaken  to  bring  the  authors  of  this 
forgery  to  justice.    No  step.    I  will " 

"No,"  she  broke  in  quickly.  "It  is  much  better  to  leave  it 
alona  What  good  can  it  do  to  follow  it  up?  It  only  tells 
every  one  about  it  We  should  despise  it.  The  thing  is  so 
obviously  false.  Why  you  can  see,"  suddenly  holding  the 
letter  towards  him,  "it  isn't  even  like  my  writing.  My  s's, 
my  m's — they're  not  like  that " 

"No,  no,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  see  that  they  are  not.  I  saw 
that  at  once." 

"You  knew  at  once  that  it  was  a  forgery  ?" 

"I  knew  at  once.    I  never  doubted  for  an  instant." 

She  sighed ;  then  settled  back  into  the  pillow  with  a  little 
shudder. 

"This  town,"  she  said ;  "the  things  they  do.  Oh  I  to  get 
away  from  it,  to  get  away !" 

"And  we  will !"  he  cried  eagerly.  "That's  what  we  need, 
both  of  us — a  holiday.  I've  been  thinking  it  over.  We're 
both  tired.    When  this  Jubilee  is  over  we'll  go  abroad — Italy, 


THEKB  JUBILEE  369 

Greece.  We'll  have  a  second  honeymoon.  Oh,  Amy,  we'll 
begin  life  again.  I've  been  much  to  blame — much  to  blama 
Give  me  that  letter.  I'll  destroy  it.  I  know  my  enemy,  but 
I'll  not  think  of  him  or  of  any  one  but  our  two  selves.  I'll 
be  good  to  you  now  if  you'll  let  me." 

She  gave  him  the  letter. 

"Look  at  it  before  you  tear  it  up,"  she  said,  staring  at  him 
as  though  she  would  not  miss  any  change  in  his  features^ 
"You're  sure  that  His  a  forgery  ?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

"It's  nothing  like  my  handwriting?" 

"N"othing  at  all." 

"You  know  that  I  am  devoted  to  you,  that  I  would  never 
be  untrue  to  you  in  thought,  word  or  deed  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,  of  course.  As  though  I  didn't 
know " 

"And  that  I'll  love  to  come  abroad  with  you  ?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  that  we'll  have  a  second  honeymoon?" 

"Yes,  yes.     Indeed,  Amy,  we  will." 

"Look  well  at  that  letter.  You  are  wrong.  It  is  not  a 
forgery.    I  did  write  it." 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but  stayed  staring  at  the  letter  like 
a  boy  detected  in  a  theft.     She  repeated : 

"The  woman  was  quite  right.     I  did  write  that  letter." 

Brandon  said,  staring  at  her,  "Don't  laugh  at  me.  This  is 
too  serious." 

"I'm  not  laughing.  I  wrote  it.  I  sent  it  down  by  Gladys. 
If  you  recall  the  day  to  her  she'll  remember." 

She  watched  his  face.  It  had  turned  suddenly  grey,  as 
though  some  one  had  slipped  a  grey  mask  over  the  original 
features. 

She  thought,  "iN'ow  perhaps  he'll  kill  me.    I'm  not  sorry." 

He  whispered,  leaning  quite  close  to  her  as  though  he  were 
afraid  she  would  not  hear. 

"You  wrote  that  letter  to  Morris  ?" 


370  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"I  did."  Then  suddenly  springing  up,  half  out  of  bed,  she 
cried,  "You're  not  to  touch  him.  Do  you  hear?  You're  not 
to  touch  him!  It's  not  his  fault  He's  had  nothing  to  do 
with  this.  He's  only  my  friend.  I  love  him,  but  he  doesn't 
love  me.    Do  you  hear  ?    He's  had  nothing  to  do  with  this !" 

"You  love  him !"  whispered  Brandon. 

"I've  loved  him  since  the  first  moment  I  saw  him.  I've 
wanted  some  one  to  love  for  years — years  and  years  and 
years.  You  didn't  love  me,  so  then  I  hoped  Falk  would,  and 
Falk  didn't,  so  then  I  found  the  first  person — any  one  who 
would  be  kind  to  ma  And  he  was  kind — he  is  kind — the 
kindest  man  in  the  world.  And  he  saw  that  I  was  lonely,  so 
he  let  me  talk  to  him  and  go  to  him — but  none  of  this  is  his 
doing.    He's  only  been  kind.     He " 

"Your  letter  says  'Dearest',"  said  Brandon.  "If  you  wrote 
that  letter  it  says  'Dearest'." 

"That  was  my  foolishness.  It  was  wrong  of  me.  He  told 
me  that  I  mustn't  say  anything  affectionate.  He's  good  and 
I'm  bad.    And  I'm  bad  because  you've  made  me." 

Brandon  took  the  letter  and  tore  it  into  little  pieces ;  they 
scattered  upon  the  counterpane. 

"You've  been  unfaithful  to  me?"  he  said,  bending  over 
her. 

She  did  not  shrink  back,  although  that  strange,  unknown, 
grey  face  was  very  close  to  her.  "Yes.  At  first  he  wouldn't. 
He  refused  anything.  But  I  would.  ...  I  wanted  to  be. 
I  hate  you.     I've  hated  you  for  years." 

^'Why  ?"    His  hand  closed  on  her  shoulder. 

"Because  of  your  conceit  and  pride.  Because  you've  never 
thought  of  me.  Because  I've  always  been  a  piece  of  furniture 
to  you — less  than  that.  Because  you've  been  so  pleased  with 
yourself  and  well-satisfied  and  stupid.  Yes.  Yes.  Most 
because  you're  so  stupid.  So  stupid.  Never  seeing  anything, 
never  knowing  anything  and  always — so  satisfied.  And  when 
the  town  was  pleased  with  you  and  said  you  were  so  fine  I've 
laughed,  knowing  what  you  were,  and  I  thought  to  myself, 


THEEB  JUBILEE  371 

'There'll  come  a  time  when  they'll  find  him  out' — and  now 
they  have.  They  know  what  you  are  at  last.  And  I'm 
glad  I  I'm  glad !  I'm  glad !"  She  stopped,  her  breast  rising 
and  falling  beneath  her  nightdress,  her  voice  shrill,  almost 
a  scream. 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  thin  bony  shoulders  and  pushed 
her  back  into  the  bed.  His  hands  moved  to  her  throat.  His 
whole  weight,  he  now  kneeling  on  the  bed,  was  on  top  of 
her. 

"Kill  me !    Kill  me  I"  she  whispered.    "I'll  be  glad." 

All  the  while  their  eyes  stared  at  one  another  inquisitively, 
as  though  they  were  strangers  meeting  for  the  first  time. 

His  hands  met  round  her  throat.  His  knees  were  over  her. 
He  felt  her  thin  throat  between  his  hands  and  a  voice  in 
his  ear  whispered,  "That's  right,  squeeze  tighter.  Splendid ! 
Splendid!" 

Suddenly  his  eyes  recognised  hers.  His  hands  dropped. 
He  crawled  from  the  bed.  Then  he  felt  his  way,  blindly,  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

TUrSDAT,    JUNK    22:      I.    THI   CATITEDEAI. 

THE  Great  Day  arrived,  escorted  sumptuously  with  skies 
of  burning  blue.  How  many  heads  looked  out  of  how 
many  windows,  the  country  over,  that  morning!  In  Pol- 
chester  it  was  considered  as  only  another  proof  of  the  esteem 
in  which  that  city  was  held  by  the  Almighty.  The  Old 
Lady  might  deserve  and  did  unquestionably  obtain  divinely 
condescending  weather  for  her  various  excursions,  but  it  was 
nothing  to  that  which  the  Old  Town  got  and  deserved. 

Deserved  or  no,  the  town  rose  to  the  occasion.  The  High 
Street  was  swimming  in  flags  and  bunting;  even  in  Seatown 
most  of  the  grimy  windows  showed  those  little  cheap  flags  that 
during  the  past  week  hawkers  had  been  so  industriously 
selling.  From  quite  early  in  the  morning  the  squeak  and 
scream  of  the  roundabouts  in  the  Fair  could  be  heard  dimly 
penetrating  the  sanctities  and  privacies  of  the  Precincts.  But 
it  was  the  Cathedral  bells,  pealing,  crashing,  echoing,  rocking, 
as  early  as  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that  first  awoke  the 
consciousness  of  most  of  the  Polcastrians  to  the  glories  of  the 
day. 

I  suppose  that  nearly  all  souls  that  morning  subconsciously 
divided  the  order  of  the  festival  into  three  periods;  in  the 
morning  the  Cathedral  and  its  service,  in  the  afternoon  the 
social,  friendly,  man-to-man  celebration,  and  in  the  evening, 
torch-light,  bonfire,  skies  ablaze,  drink  and  love. 

Certain  it  is  that  many  eyes  turned  towards  the  Cathedral 
accustomed  for  many  years  to  look  in  quite  other  directions. 
There  was  to  be  a  grand  service,  they  said,  with  "trumpets 

372 


JUBILEE  373 

and  shawms"  and  the  big  drum,  and  the  old  Bishop  preaching, 
making,  in  all  probability,  his  very  last  public  appearance. 
Up  from  the  dark  mysteries  of  Seatown,  down  from  the 
chaste  proprieties  of  the  villas  above  Orange  Street,  from  the 
purlieus  of  the  market,  from  the  shops  of  the  High  Street, 
sailors  and  merchantmen,  traders  and  sea-captains  and,  from 
the  wild  fastness  of  the  Fair,  gipsies  with  silver  rings  in 
their  ears  and,  perhaps,  who  can  tell?  bells  on  their  dusky 
toes. 

Very  early  were  Lawrence  and  Cobbett  about  their  duties. 
This  was,  in  all  probability,  Lawrence's  last  Great  Day  before 
the  final  and  all- judging  one,  and  well  both  he  and  Cobbett 
were  aware  of  it.  Cobbett  could  see  himself  that  morning 
almost  stepping  into  the  old  man's  shoes,  and  the  old  man 
himself  was  not  well  this  morning — not  well  at  all.  Rheuma- 
tism, gout,  what  hadn't  he  got  ? — and,  above  all,  that  strange, 
mysterious  pain  somewhere  in  his  very  vitals,  a  pain  that  was 
not  precisely  a  pain,  too  dull  and  homely  for  that,  but  a  warn- 
ing, a  foreboding. 

On  an  ordinary  day,  in  spite  of  his  dislike  of  allowing  Cob- 
bett any  of  those  duties  that  were  so  properly  his  own,  he 
would  have  stayed  in  bed,  but  to-day  ? — no,  thank  you !  On 
Buch  a  day  as  this  he  would  defy  the  Devil  himself  and  all 
his  red-hot  pincers !  So  there  he  was  in  his  long  purple  gown, 
with  his  lovely  snow-white  beard,  and  his  gold-topped  staff, 
patronising  Mrs.  Muffit  (who  superintended  the  cleaning) 
and  her  ancient  servitors,  seeing  that  the  places  for  the  Band 
(just  under  the  choir-screen)  and  for  the  extra  members  of 
the  choir  were  all  in  order,  and,  above  all,  that  the  Bishop's 
Throne  up  by  the  altar  was  guiltless  of  a  speck  of  dust,  of  a 
shadow  of  a  shadow  of  disorder.  Cobbett  saw,  beyond  any 
question  or  doubt,  death  in  the  old  man's  face,  and  suddenly, 
to  his  own  amazement,  was  sorry.  For  years  now  he  had  been 
waiting  for  the  day  when  he  should  succeed  the  tiresome  old 
fool,  for  years  he  had  cursed  him  for  a  thousand  pomposities, 
blunders,  tedious  garrulities,  and  now,  suddenly,  he  was 


374  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


sorry.  What  had  come  over  him  ?  But  he  wasn't  a  bad  old 
man ;  plucky,  too ;  you  could  see  how  he  was  suffering.  They 
had,  after  all,  been  companions  together  for  so  many 
years.  .  .  . 

Quite  early  in  the  morning  arrivals  began — visitors  from 
the  country  most  likely,  sitting  there  at  the  back  of  the  nave, 
bathed  in  the  great  silence  and  the  dim  light,  just  looking  and 
wondering  and  expecting.  Some  of  them  wanted  to  move 
about  and  examine  the  brasses  and  the  tombs  and  the  windows 
— yes,  move  about  with  their  families,  and  their  bags  of  sand- 
wiches, and  their  oranges.  But  not  this  morning,  oh,  dear, 
no !  They  could  come  in  or  go  out,  but  if  they  came  in  they 
must  stay  quiet.  Did  they  but  subterraneously  giggle.  Cob- 
bet  was  on  their  tracks  in  no  time. 

The  light  flooded  in,  throwing  great  splashes  and  lakes  of 
blue  and  gold  and  purple  on  to  flag  and  pillar.  Great  in  its 
strength,  magnificent  in  its  beauty,  the  Cathedral  pre- 
pared. .  .  . 

Mrs.  Combermere  walked  rather  solemnly  that  morning 
from  her  house  to  the  Cathedral.  In  spite  of  the  lovely  morn- 
ing she  was  feeling  suddenly  old.  Things  like  Jubilees  do 
date  you — no  doubt  about  it.  Nearly  fifty.  Three-quarters 
of  life  behind  her  and  what  had  she  to  show  for  it  ?  An  un- 
lucky marriage,  much  physical  health  and  fun,  some  friends 
— but,  at  the  last,  lonely — lonely  as  perhaps  every  human 
being  in  this  queer  world  was.  That  old  woman  now  prepar- 
ing to  ride  in  fantastic  procession  before  her  worshipping 
subjects,  she  was  lonely  too.  Poor,  little,  lonely,  old  woman  I 
Well,  then.  Charity  to  all  and  sundry — Charity,  kindliness, 
the  one  and  only  thing.  Aggie  Combermere  was  not  a  senti- 
mental woman,  nor  did  she  see  life  falsely,  but  she  was 
suddenly  aware,  walking  under  the  blazing  blue  sky,  that  she 
had  been  unkind,  for  amusement's  sake,  more  often  than  she 
need.  .  .  .  Well,  why  not  ?  She  was  ready  to  allow  people  to 
have  a  shy  at  herself — any  one  who  liked-  ..."  'Ere  you 


THKEB  JUBILEE  375 

are  I  Old  Aunt  Sally !  Three  shies  a  penny !"  And  she  was 
an  Aunt  Sally,  a  ludicrous  creature,  caring  for  her  dogs  more 
than  for  any  living  creature,  shovelling  food  into  her  mouth 
for  no  particular  purpose,  doing  physical  exercises  in  the 
morning,  and  nearly  fifty ! 

She  found  then,  just  as  she  reached  the  Arden  Gate,  that, 
to  her  own  immense  surprise,  it  was  not  of  herself  that,  all 
this  time,  she  had  been  thinking,  but  rather  of  Brandon  and 
the  Brandon  family.  The  Brandons!  What  an  extraordi- 
nary affair !  The  Town  was  now  bursting  its  fat  sides  with 
excitement  over  it  all !  The  Town  was  now  generally  aware 
(but  how  it  was  aware  no  one  quite  knew)  that  there  was  a 
mysterious  letter  that  Mrs.  Brandon  had  written  to  Morris, 
and  that  Miss  Milton,  librarian  who  was,  had  obtained  this 
letter  and  had  taken  it  to  Ronder,  And  the  next  move,  the 
next !  the  next !  Oh,  tell  us !  Tell  us !  The  Town  stands  on 
tiptoe ;  its  hair  on  end.  Let  us  see !  Let  us  see !  Let  us  not 
miss  the  tiniest  detail  of  this  extraordinary  affair ! 

And  really  how  extraordinary !  First  the  boy  runs  off  with 
that  girl ;  then  Mrs.  Brandon,  the  quietest,  dullest  woman  for 
years  and  years,  throws  her  cap  over  the  mill  and  behaves  like 
a  madwoman ;  and  Johnny  St.  Leath,  they  say,  is  in  love  with 
the  daughter,  and  his  old  mother  is  furious;  and  Brandon, 
they  say,  wants  to  cut  Bonder's  throat.  Ronder !  Mrs.  Com- 
bermere  paused,  partly  to  get  her  breath,  partly  to  enjoy  for 
an  instant  the  shining,  glittering  grass,  dotted  with  figures, 
stretching  like  a  carpet  from  the  vast  greyness  of  the  Cathe- 
dral. Ronder !  There  was  a  remarkable  man  1  Mrs.  Com- 
bermere  was  conquered  by  him,  in  spite  of  herself.  How,  in 
seven  short  months,  he  had  conquered  everybody !  What  an 
amusing  talker,  what  a  good  preacher,  what  a  clever  business 
head  I  And  yet  she  did  not  really  like  him.  His  praises  now 
were  in  every  one's  mouth,  but  she  did  not  really  like  him. 
Old  Brandon  was  still  her  favourite,  her  old  friend  of  ten 
years ;  but  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  behind  the  times, 
Ronder  had  shown  them  that !    No  use  living  in  the  'Eighties 


376  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

any  longer.  But  she  was  fond  of  him,  she  did  not  want  him 
to  be  unhappy — and  unhappy  he  was,  that  any  one  could  see. 
Most  of  all,  she  did  not  want  him  to  do  anything  foolish — and 
he  might,  his  temper  was  strange,  he  was  not  so  strong  as  he 
looked ;  he  had  felt  his  son's  escapade  terribly — and  now  his 
wife! 

"Well,  if  I  had  a  wife  like  that,"  was  Mrs.  Combermere's 
conclusion  before  she  joined  Ellen  Stiles  and  Julia  Preston, 
"I'd  let  her  go  off  with  any  one !    Pay  any  one  to  take  her !" 

Ellen  was,  of  course,  full  of  it  all.  "My  dear,  what  do  you 
think  is  the  latest !  They  say  that  the  Archdeacon  threatens 
to  poison  the  whole  of  the  Chapter  if  they  don't  let  Forsyth 
have  Pybus,  and  that  Boadicea  has  ordered  Johnny  to  take  a 
voyage  to  the  Canary  Islands  for  his  health,  and  that  he  says 
he'll  see  her  shot  first  I  And  Miss  Milton  is  selling  the  letter 
for  a  thousand  pounds  to  the  first  comer  1" 

Mrs.  Combermere  stopped  her  sharply — "Mind  your  own 
business,  Ellen.  The  whole  thing  now  is  past  a  joke.  And 
as  to  Johnny  St.  Leath,  he  shows  his  good  taste.  There  isn't 
a  sweeter,  prettier  girl  in  England  than  Joan  Brandon,  and 
he's  lucky  if  he  gets  her." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  ill-natured,"  said  Ellen  Stiles  rather 
plaintively,  'Hbut  that  family  would  test  anybody's  reticenca 
We'd  better  go  in  or  old  Lawrence  will  be  letting  some  one 
have  our  seats." 

Joan  came  with  her  mother  slowly  across  the  grass.  In 
her  dress  was  this  letter : 

Dearest,  dearest,  dearest  Joan — The  first  thing  you  have 
thoroughly  to  realise  is  that  it  doesn't  matter  what  you  say  or 
what  mother  says  or  what  any  one  says.  Mother's  angry.  Of 
course  she  is.  She's  been  angry  a  thousand  million  times  before 
and  will  be  a  thousand  million  times  again.  But  it  doesn't 
mean  anything.  Mother  likes  to  be  angry,  it  docs  her  good,  and 
the  longer  she's  angry  with  you  the  better  she'll  like  you,  if  you 
understand  what  I  mean.  What  I  want  to  get  into  your  head 
is  that  you  can't  alter  anything.    Of  course  if  yuu  didn't  love 


THBEB  JUBILEE  377 

me  it  wonld  be  another  matter,  and  yon  tried  to  tell  me  you 
didn't  love  me  yesterday  just  for  my  good,  but  you  did  it  so 
badly  that  you  had  to  admit  yourself  that  it  was  a  failure. 
Don't  talk  about  your  brother ;  he's  a  fine  fellow,  and  I'm  going 
to  look  him  up  when  I'm  in  London  next  month.  Don't  talk 
about  not  seeing  me,  because  you  can't  help  seeing  me  if  I'm 
right  in  front  of  you.  I'm  no  silph.  (The  way  he  spelt  it.) 
I'm  quite  ready  to  wait  for  a  certain  time  anyway.  But  marry 
we  will,  and  happy  we'll  be  for  ever  and  ever! — Your  adoring 

Johnny. 

And  what  was  she  to  do  about  it?  She  was  certainly 
rery  unmodern  and  inexperienced  by  the  standards  of  to-day 
— on  the  other  hand,  she  was  a  very  long  way  indeed  from  the 
Lily  Dales  and  Eleanor  Hardings  of  Mr.  Trollope.  She  had 
not  told  her  father — that  she  was  resolved  to  do  so  soon  as  he 
seemed  a  little  less  worried  by  his  affairs ;  but  say  that  she  did 
not  love  Johnny  she  had  found  that  she  could  not,  and  as  to 
damaging  him  by  marrying  him,  his  love  for  her  had 
strengthened  her  own  pride  in  herself.  She  did  not  under- 
stand his  love,  it  was  astounding  to  her  after  the  indifference 
with  which  her  own  family  had  always  treated  her.  But 
there  it  was:  he,  with  all  his  experience  of  life,  loved  her 
more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  so  there  must  be  some- 
thing in  her.  And  she  knew  there  was;  privately  she  had 
always  known  it.  As  to  his  mother — well,  so  long  as  Johnny 
loved  her  she  could  face  anybody. 

So  this  wonderful  morning  she  was  radiantly  happy.  Child 
as  she  was,  she  adored  this  excitement.  It  was  splendid  of  it 
to  be  this  glorious  time  just  when  she  was  having  her  own 
glorious  time !  Splendid  of  the  weather  to  be  so  beautiful,  of 
the  bells  to  clash,  of  every  one  to  wear  their  best  clothes,  of 
the  Jubilee  to  arrange  itself  so  exactly  at  the  right  moment ! 
And  could  it  be  only  last  Saturday  that  he  had  spoken  to  her  ? 
And  it  seemed  centuries,  centuries  ago ! 

She  chattered  eagerly,  smiling  at  Betty  Callender,  and  then 
at  the  D'Arcy  girls,  and  then  at  Mrs.  Bentinck-Major.  She 
supposed  that  they  were  all  talking  about  her.    Well,  let  them. 


878  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

There  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  Quite  the  contrary. 
She  did  not  notice  her  mother's  silence.  But  she  had  noticed, 
before  they  left  the  house,  how  ill  her  mother  was  looking. 
A  very  bad  night — another  of  her  dreadful  headaches.  Her 
father  had  not  come  in  to  breakfast  at  all.  Everything  had 
been  wrong  at  home  since  that  day  when  Falk  had  been  sent 
down  from  Oxford.  She  longed  to  put  her  arms  around  her 
father's  neck  and  hug  him.  Behind  her  own  happiness,  ever 
since  the  night  of  the  Ball,  there  had  been  a  longing,  an  aching 
urgent  longing  to  pet  him,  comfort  him,  make  love  to  him. 
And  she  would,  too — as  soon  as  all  these  festivities  were  over. 

And  then  suddenly  there  were  Johnny  and  his  mother  and 
his  sisters  walking  towards  the  West  door!  What  a  situa- 
tion! And  then  there  was  Johnny  breaking  away  from  hia 
own  family  and  hurrying  towards  them,  lifting  his  hat, 
smiling ! 

How  splendid  he  looked  and  how  happy  1  And  how  happy 
she  also  was  looking  had  she  only  known  it! 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Brandon." 

Mrs.  Brandon  didn't  appear  to  remember  him  at  all.  Then 
suddenly,  as  though  she  had  picked  her  conscience  out  of  her 
pocket: 

"Oh,  good  morning,  Lord  St.  Leath." 

Joan,  out  of  the  comer,  saw  Boadicea,  her  head  with  its 
absurd  bonnet  high,  striding  indignantly  ahead. 

"What  lovely  weather,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,  aren't  we  lucky?    Good  morning,  Joan." 

"Good  morning." 

"Isn't  it  a  lovely  day  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is." 

"Are  you  going  to  see  the  Torchlight  Procession  to-night?" 

"They  come  through  the  Precincts,  you  know." 

"Of  course  they  do.  We're  going  to  have  five  bonfires  all 
around  us.     Mother's  afraid  they'll  set  the  Castle  on  fire." 

They  both  laughed — much  too  happy  to  know  what  they 
were  laughing  at. 


THBSB 


JUBILEE  879 


Mrs.  Sampson  joined  them.  Johnny  and  Joan  walked 
ahead.    Only  two  steps  and  they  would  be  in  the  CathedraL 

"Did  you  get  my  letter  V 

"Yes." 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you."  This  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"Johnny — ^you  mustn't — ^you  know — we  can't — you  know 
I  oughtn't " 

They  passed  through  into  the  Cathedral. 

Mrs.  Bentinck-Major  came  with  Miss  Render,  slowly, 
across  the  grass.  It  was  not  necessary  for  them  to  hurry  be- 
cause they  knew  that  their  seats  were  reserved  for  them.  Mrs. 
Bentinck-Major  thought  Miss  Bonder  "queer"  because  of  the 
clever  things  that  she  said  and  of  the  odd  fashion  in  which 
she  always  dressed.  To  say  anything  clever  was,  with  Mrs. 
Bentinck-Major,  at  once  to  be  classed  as  "queer." 

"It  is  hot  1" 

Miss  Bonder,  thin  and  piky  above  her  stiif  white  collar, 
looked  immaculately  cool.  "A  lovely  day,"  she  said,  sniffing 
the  colour  and  the  warmth,  and  loving  it. 

Mrs.  Bentinck-Major  was  thinking  of  the  Brandon  scandal, 
but  it  was  one  of  her  habits  never  to  let  her  left-hand  voice 
know  what  her  right-hand  brain  was  doing.  Secretly  she 
often  wondered  about  sexual  things — what  people  really  did, 
whether  they  enjoyed  what  they  did,  and  whether  she  would 
have  enjoyed  the  same  things  had  life  gone  that  way  with  her 
instead  of  leading  her  to  Bentinck-Major. 

But  she  never,  never  spoke  of  such  things.  She  was  think- 
ing now  of  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Morris.  They  said  that  some 
one  had  found  a  letter,  a  disgraceful  letter.  How  extraor- 
dinary! 

"It's  loneliness,"  suddenly  said  Miss  Bonder,  "that  drives 
people  to  do  the  things  they  do." 

Mrs.  Bentinck-Major  started  as  though  some  one  had  struck 
her  in  the  small  of  her  back.  Was  the  woman  a  witch  ?  How 
amazing ! 


380  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  nervously. 

"I  was  speaking,"  said  Miss  Ronder  in  her  clear  incisive 
voice,  "of  one  of  our  maids,  who  has  suddenly  engaged  herself 
to  the  most  unpleasing-looking  butcher's  assistant  you  can 
imagine — all  spots  and  stammer.  Quite  a  pretty  girl,  too. 
But  it's  fear  of  loneliness  that  does  it.     Wanting  affection." 

Dear  me !  Mrs.  Bentinck-Major  had  never  had  very  much 
affection  from  Mr.  Bentinck-Major,  and  had  not  very  con- 
sciously missed  it,  but  then  she  had  a  dog,  a  spaniel,  whom  she 
loved  most  dearly. 

"We're  all  lonely — all  of  us — to  the  very  end,"  said  Miss 
Ronder,  as  though  she  was  thinking  of  some  one  in  especial. 
And  she  was.  She  was  thinking  of  her  nephew.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  the  Queen  isn't  feeling  more  lonely  to-day  than  she 
has  ever  felt  in  all  her  life  before." 

And  then  they  saw  that  dreadful  man,  Da\Tay,  lurching 
along.  He  was  lonely,  but  then  he  deserved  to  be,  with  his 
drink  and  all.  Wichcd  man  I  Mrs.  Bentinck-Major  shivered- 
She  didn't  know  how  he  dared  to  go  to  church.  He  shouldn't 
be  allowed.  On  such  a  day,  too.  What  would  the  Queen  her- 
self think,  did  she  know  ? 

The  two  ladies  and  Davray  passed  through  the  door  at  the 
same  timei 

And  now  every  one  was  inside.  The  great  bell  dropped 
notes  like  heavy  weights  into  a  liquid  well.  For  the  cup  of 
the  Cathedral  swam  in  colour,  the  light  pouring  through  the 
great  Rose  window,  and  that  multitude  of  persons  seeming  to 
sway  like  shadows  beneath  a  sheet  of  water  from  amber  to 
purple,  from  purple  to  crimson,  from  crimson  to  darkest 
green. 

Individuality  was  lost.  The  Cathedral,  thinking  nothing 
of  Kings  and  Queens,  of  history,  of  movement  forward  and 
retrograde,  but  only  of  itself  and  of  the  life  that  it  had  been 
given,  that  it  now  claimed  for  its  own,  with  haughty  confi- 


THREE  JUBILEE  381 

dence  assumed  its  Power  .  .  .  the  Power  of  its  own  Immor- 
tality that  is  neither  man's  nor  God's. 

The  trumpets  began.  They  rang  out  the  Psalm  that  had 
been  given  them,  and  transformed  it  into  a  cry  of  exultant 
triumph.  Their  notes  rose,  were  caught  by  the  pillars,  ac- 
claimed, tossed  higher,  caught  again  in  the  eaves  and  corners 
of  the  great  building,  swinging  backwards  and  forwards.  .  .  . 

"Now  listen  to  My  greatness!  You  created  Me  for  the 
Worship  of  your  God! 

"And  now  I  am  your  God  I  Out  of  your  forms  and  cere- 
monies you  have  made  a  new  God !  And  I,  thy  God,  am  a 
jealous  God.   ..." 

Ronder  read  the  First  Lesson. 

"That's  Render,"  the  town-people  whispered,  "the  new 
Canon,    Oh !   he's  clever.    You  should  hear  him  preach !" 

"Reads  beautiful!"  Gladys,  the  Brandons'  maid,  whis- 
pered to  Annie,  the  kitchen-maid.  "I  do  like  a  bit  of  fine 
reading." 

By  those  accustomed  to  observe  it  was  noticed  that  Render 
read  with  very  much  more  assurance  than  he  had  done  three 
months  ago.  It  was  as  though  he  knew  now  where  he  was,  as 
though  he  were  settled  down  now  and  had  his  place — and  it 
would  take  some  very  strong  people  to  shift  him  from  that 
place.    Oh,  yes.    It  would ! 

And  Brandon  read  the  Second  Lesson.  As  usual,  when  he 
stepped  down  from  the  choir,  slowly,  impressively,  pausing 
for  a  moment  before  he  turned  to  the  Lectern,  strangers  whis- 
pered to  one  another,  "That's  a  handsome  parson,  that  is." 
He  seemed  to  hesitate  again  before  going  up  as  though  he  had 
stumbled  over  a  step.  Very  slowly  he  read  the  opening  words ; 
slowly  he  continued. 

Puddifoot,  looking  up  across  from  his  seat  in  the  side  aisle, 
thought,  "There's  something  the  matter  with  him."  Suddenly 
he  paused,  looked  about  him,  stared  over  the  congregation  as 
though  he  were  searching  for  somebody,  then  slowly  again 
went  on  and  finished: 


382  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"Here  endeth — the  Second  Lesson." 

Then,  instead  of  turning,  he  leaned  forward,  gripping  the 
Lectern  with  both  hands,  and  seemed  again  to  be  searching 
for  some  one. 

"Looks  as  though  he  were  going  to  have  a  stroke,"  thought 
Puddifoot.  Then  very  carefully,  as  though  he  were  moving 
in  darkness,  he  turned  and  groped  his  way  downwards.  With 
bent  head  he  walked  back  into  the  choir. 

Soon  they  were  scattered — every  one  according  to  his  or  her 
own  individuality — the  prayers  had  broken  them  up,  too  many 
of  them,  too  long,  and  the  wooden  kneelers  so  hard.  Minds 
flew  like  birds  about  the  Cathedral — ideas,  gold  and  silver, 
black  and  grey,  soapy  and  soft,  hard  as  iron.  The  men 
yawned  behind  their  trumpets,  the  School  played  Noughts 
and  Crosses — the  Old  Lady  and  her  Triumph  stepped  away 
into  limbo. 

And  then  suddenly  it  was  time  for  the  Bishop's  sermon. 
Every  one  hoped  that  it  would  not  be  long;  passing  clouds 
veiled  the  light  behind  the  East  window  and  the  Roses  faded 
to  asheS.  The  organ  rumbled  in  its  crotchety  voice  as  the  old 
man  slowly  disentangled  himself  from  his  throne,  and  slowly, 
slowly,  slowly  advanced  down  the  choir.  When  he  appeared 
above  the  nave,  and  paused  for  an  instant  to  make  sure  of  the 
step,  all  the  minds  in  the  Cathedral  suddenly  concentrated 
again,  the  birds  flew  back,  the  air  was  still.  At  the  sight  of 
that  very  old  man,  that  little  bag  of  shaking  bones,  all  the 
brief  history  of  the  world  was  suddenly  apparent.  Greater 
than  Alexander,  more  beautiful  than  Helen  of  Troy,  wiser 
than  Gamaliel,  more  powerful  tlian  Artaxerxes,  he  made  the 
secret  of  immortal  life  visible  to  all. 

.  His  hair  was  white,  and  his  face  was  ashen  grey,  and  his 
hands  were  like  bird's  claws.  Like  a  child  finding  its  way 
across  its  nursery  floor  he  climbed  to  the  pulpit,  being  now  so 
far  distant  in  heaven  that  earth  was  dark  to  him. 

"The  Lord  be  with  you." 


THEEE  JUBILEE  383 

"And  with  Thy  Spirit." 

His  voice  was  clear  and  could  be  heard  by  all.  He  spoke 
for  a  very  short  time.  He  told  them  about  the  Queen,  and 
that  she  had  been  good  to  her  people  for  sixty  years,  and  that 
ehe  had  feared  God ;  he  told  them  that  that  goodness  was  the 
only  secret  of  happiness;  he  told  them  that  Jesus  Christ 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  ever  more  near,  did  one  but  ask 
Him. 

He  said,  "I  suppose  that  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  in  this 
place  again.  I  am  very  old.  Some  of  you  have  thought, 
perhaps,  that  I  was  too  old  to  do  my  work  here — others  have 
wanted  me  to  stay.  I  have  loved  you  all  very  much,  and  it  is 
lonely  to  go  away  from  you.  Our  great  and  good  Queen  also 
is  old  now,  and  perhaps  she,  too,  in  the  middle  of  her  triumph, 
is  feeling  lonely.  So  pray  for  her,  and  then  pray  for  me  a 
little,  that  when  I  meet  God  He  may  forgive  me  my  sins  and 
help  me  to  do  better  work  than  I  have  done  here.  Life  is  sad 
sometimes,  and  often  it  is  dark,  but  at  the  end  it  is  beautiful 
and  wonderful,  for  which  we  must  thank  God." 

He  knelt  down  and  prayed,  and  every  one,  Davray  and  Mrs. 
Combermere,  Ellen  Stiles  and  Morris,  Lady  St.  Leath  and 
Mrs.  Brandon,  Joan  and  Lawrence,  Render  and  Foster, 
prayed  too. 

And  then  they  all,  all  for  a  moment  utterly  united  in  soul 
and  body  and  spirit,  knelt  down  and  the  old  man  blessed  them 
from  the  pulpit. 

Then  they  sang  "Now  Thank  We  All  Our  God." 

Afterwards  came  the  Benediction. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TUESDAY,  JUNE  22  :    II.    THE  FAIB 

AS  Brandon  left  the  Cathedral  Render  came  up  to  him. 
Brandon,  with  bowed  head,  had  turned  into  the  Clois- 
ters, although  that  was  not  the  quickest  way  to  his  home.  The 
two  men  were  alone  in  the  greyness  lit  from  without  by  the 
brilliant  sun  as  though  it  had  been  a  stage  setting. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Archdeacon,  I  must  speak  to  you." 
Brandon  raised  his  head.    He  stared  at  Ronder,  then  said : 
"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you.     I  do  not  wish  to  speak  to 
you." 

"I  know  that  you  do  not."  Render's  face  was  really 
troubled ;  there  was  an  expression  in  his  eyes  that  his  aunt 
had  never  seen. 

Brandon  moved  on,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left 
Ronder  continued :  "I  know  how  you  feel  about  me.    But 
to-day — somehow — this  service — I  feel  that  I  can't  allow  our 
quarrel   to   continue   without  speaking.      It   isn't  easy   for 

me "  He  broke  off. 

Brandon's  voice  shook. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you.  I  do  not  wish  to  say  any- 
thing to  you.    You  have  been  my  enemy  since  you  first  came 

to  this  to\vn.    My  work — my  family " 

"I  am  not  your  enemy.  Indeed,  indeed  I  am  not.  I  won*t 
deny  that  when  I  came  here  I  found  that  you,  who  were  the 
most  important  man  in  the  place,  thought  differently  from 
myself  on  every  important  question.  You,  yourself,  who  are 
an  honest  man,  would  not  have  had  me  back  out  from  what  I 
believed  to  be  my  duty.    I  could  do  no  other.    But  this  per- 

384 


JUBILEE  .       385 

sonal  quarrel  between  us  was  most  truly  not  of  my  own  seek- 
ing. I  have  liked  and  admired  you  from  the  beginning.  Such 
a  matter  as  the  Pybus  living  has  forced  us  into  opposition, 
but  I  am  convinced  that  there  are  many  views  that  we  have  in 
common,  that  we  could  be  friends  working  together " 

Brandon  stopped. 

"Did  my  son,  or  did  he  not,  come  to  see  you  before  he  went 
up  to  London?" 

Bonder  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "he  did.    But " 

"Did  he,  or  did  he  not,  ask  your  advice  ?" 

"Yes,  he  did.    But " 

"Did  you  advise  him  to  take  the  course  which  he  after- 
wards followed  ?" 

"ISTo,  on  my  honour,  Archdeacon,  I  did  not.  I  did  not 
know  what  his  personal  trouble  was.  I  did  not  ask  him  and 
he  did  not  tell  me.    We  talked  of  generalities " 

"Had  you  heard,  before  he  came  to  you,  gossip  about  my 
son?" 

"I  had  heard  some  silly  talk " 

"Very  well,  then." 

"But  you  shall  listen  to  me.  Archdeacon.  I  scarcely  knew 
your  son.  I  had  met  him  only  once  before,  at  some  one's 
house,  and  talked  to  him  then  only  for  five  minutes.  He  him- 
self asked  to  come  and  see  me.  I  could  not  refuse  him  when 
he  asked  me.  I  did  not,  of  course,  wish  to  refuse  him.  I 
liked  the  look  of  him,  and  simply  for  his  own  sake  wished 
to  know  him  better.  When  he  came  he  was  not  with  me  for 
very  long  and  our  talk  was  entirely  about  religion,  belief, 
faith  in  God,  the  meaning  of  life,  nothing  more  particular 
than  such  things." 

"Did  he  say,  when  he  left  you,  that  what  you  had  told  him 
had  helped  him  to  make  up  his  mind  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Were  you,  when  he  talked  to  jou,  quite  unconscious  that 


386  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

he  was  my  son,  and  that  any  action  that  he  took  would  at  once 
affect  my  life,  my  happiness?" 

"Of  course  I  was  aware  that  he  was  your  son.    But " 

"There  is  another  question  that  I  wish  to  ask  you^  Canon 
Render.  Did  some  one  come  to  you  not  long  ago  with  a 
letter  that  purported  to  be  written  by  my  wife  V 

Again  Konder  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Did  she  show  you  that  letter?" 

"She  did." 

"Did  she  ask  your  advice  as  to  what  she  should  do  with  it?" 

"She  did— I  told  her " 

"Did  you  tell  her  to  come  with  it  to  me  ?" 

"No.  On  my  life,  Archdeacon,  no.  I  told  her  to  destroy 
it  and  that  she  was  behaving  with  the  utmost  wickedness." 

"Did  you  believe  that  that  letter  was  written  by  my  wife." 

"No." 

"Then  why,  if  you  believed  that  this  woman  was  going 
about  the  town  v/ith  a  forged  letter  directed  against  my  happi- 
ness and  my  family's  happiness,  did  you  not  come  to  me  and 
tell  me  of  it  ?" 

"You  must  remember,  Arclideacon,  that  we  were  not  on 
good  terms.  We  had  had  a  ridiculous  quarrel  that  had,  by 
some  means  or  another,  become  public  property  throughout 
the  whole  town.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  felt  sore  about  that 
I  did  not  know  what  sort  of  reception  I  might  get  if  I  came 
to  you." 

"Very  well.  There  is  a  further  question  that  I  wish  to  ask 
you.  Will  you  deny  that  from  the  moment  that  you  set  foot 
in  this  town  you  have  been  plotting  against  me  in  respect  to 
the  Pybus  living?  You  found  out  on  which  side  I  was  stand- 
ing and  at  once  took  the  other.  From  that  moment  you  went 
about  the  town,  having  secret  interviews  with  every  sort  of 
person,  working  them  by  flattery  and  suggestion  round  to 
your  side.    Will  you  deny  that?" 

Against  his  will  and  his  absolute  determination  Ronder^a 


THREE 


JUBILEE  387 


anger  began  to  rise:  "That  I  have  been  plotting  as  you  call 
it,"  he  said,  "I  absolutely  and  utterly  deny.  That  is  an  in- 
sulting word.  That  I  have  been  against  you  in  the  matter 
of  Pybus  from  the  first  has,  of  course,  been  known  to  every 
one  here.  I  have  been  against  you  because  of  what  I  believe 
to  be  the  future  good  of  our  Church  and  of  our  work  here. 
There  has  been  nothing  personal  in  that  matter  at  all." 

"You  lie,"  said  Brandon,  suddenly  raising  his  voice. 
"Every  word  that  you  have  spoken  to  me  this  morning  has 
been  a  lie.  You  are  an  enemy  of  myself  and  of  my  Church, 
and  with  God's  help  your  plots  and  falsehoods  shall  yet  be 
defeated.  You  may  take  from  me  my  wife  and  my  children, 
you  may  ruin  my  career  here  that  has  been  built  up  through 
ten  years  of  unfaltering  loyalty  and  work,  but  God  Himself 
is  stronger  than  your  inventions — and  God  will  see  to  it.  I 
am  your  enemy,  Canon  Render,  to  the  end,  as  you  are  mine. 
You  had  better  look  to  yourself.  You  have  been  concerned 
in  certain  things  that  the  Law  may  have  something  to  say 
about.    Look  to  yourself !    Look  to  yourself !" 

He  strode  off  down  the  Cloisters. 

People  came  to  luncheon ;  there  had  been  an  invitation  of 
some  weeks  before.  He  scarcely  recognised  them;  one  was 
Mr,  Martin,  another  Dr.  Trudon,  an  old  Mrs.  Purley,  a  well- 
established  widow,  an  ancient  resident,  a  Miss  Barrester. 
He  scarcely  recognised  them  although  he  talked  so  exactly  in 
his  accustomed  way  that  no  one  noticed  anything  at  all.  Mrs. 
Brandon  also  talked  in  her  accustomed  way;  that  is,  she 
scarcely  spoke.  Only  that  afternoon,  at  tea  at  the  Dean's,  Dr. 
Trudon  confided  to  Julia  Preston  that  he  could  assure  her 
that  all  the  rumours  were  false;  the  Archdeacon  had  never 
seemed  better   .    .    .   funny  for  him  afterwards  to  remember ! 

Shadows  of  a  shade!  When  they  left  Brandon  it  was  as 
though  they  had  never  been;  the  echo  of  their  voices  died 
away  into  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  movement  of  plates,  the 
shifting  of  chairs. 


388  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

He  shut  himself  into  his  study.  Here  was  his  stronghold, 
his  fortress.  He  settled  into  his  chair  and  the  things  in  the 
room  gathered  around  him  with  friendly  consoling  gestures. 

"We  are  still  here,  we  are  your  old  friends.  We  know  you 
for  what  you  truly  are.    We  do  not  change  like  the  world." 

He  fell  into  a  deep  sleep;  he  was  desperately  tired ;  he  had 
not  slept  at  all  last  night.  He  was  sunk  into  deep  fathomless 
imconsciousness.  Then  he  rose  from  that,  climbing  up,  up, 
seeing  before  him  a  high,  black,  snow-tipped  mountain.  The" 
ascent  of  this  he  must  achieve,  his  life  depended  upon  it.  He 
seemed  to  be  naked,  the  wind  lashing  his  body,  icy  cold,  so 
cold  that  his  breath  stabbed  him.  He  climbed,  the  rocks  cut 
his  knees  and  hands ;  then,  on  every  side  his  enemies  appeared, 
Bentinck-Major  and  Foster,  the  Bishop's  Chaplain,  women, 
even  children,  laughing,  and  behind  them  Hogg  and  that 
drunken  painter.  Their  hands  were  on  him,  they  pulled  at 
his  flesh,  they  beat  on  his  face — then,  suddenly,  rising  like  a 
full  moon  behind  the  hill — Bonder ! 

He  woke  with  a  cry ;  the  sun  was  flooding  the  room,  and 
at  the  joy  of  that  great  light  and  of  finding  himself  alone  he 
could  have  burst  into  tears  of  relief. 

His  thoughts  came  to  him  quickly,  his  brain  had  been  clari- 
fied by  that  sleep,  horrible  though  it  had  been.  He  thought 
steadily  now,  the  facts  all  arranged  before  him.  His  wife 
had  told  him,  almost  with  vindictive  pride,  that  she  had  been 
guilty  of  adultery.  He  did  not  at  present  think  of  Morris 
at  all. 

To  him  adultery  was  an  awful,  a  terrible  sin.  He  himself 
had  been  physically  faithful  to  his  wife,  although  he  had  pei> 
haps  never,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  loved  her.  Because 
he  had  been  a  man  of  splendid  physique  and  great  animal 
spirits  he  had,  of  course,  and  especially  in  his  earlier  days, 
known  what  physical  temptation  was,  but  the  extreme  preoccu- 
pation of  his  time  with  every  kind  of  business  had  saved  him 
from  that  acutest  lure  that  idleness  brings.  Nevertheless,  it 
may  confidently  be  said  that,  had  temptation  been  of  the 


THREE  JUBILEE  389 

sharpest  and  the  most  aggravating,  he  would  never  have,  even 
for  a  moment,  dwelt  upon  the  possibility  of  yielding  to  it. 
To  him  this  was  the  "sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost." 

He  had  not  indeed  the  purity  of  the  Saint  to  whom  these 
sins  are  simply  not  realisable ;  he  had  the  confidence  of  one 
who  had  made  his  vows  to  God  and,  having  made  them,  could 
not  conceive  that  they  should  be  broken. 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  with  all  the  horror  that  his 
wife's  confession  had  raised  in  him  there  was  mingled,  against 
his  will,  the  strangest  fear  for  her.  She  had  lived  with  him 
during  all  these  years,  he  had  been  her  guard,  protector,  hus- 
band. 

Her  immortal  soul  now  was  lost  unless  in  some  way  he 
could  save  it  for  her.  And  it  was  he  who  should  save  it.  She 
had  suddenly  a  new  poignant  importance  for  him  that  she 
had  never  had  before.  Her  danger  was  as  deadly  and  as 
imminent  to  him  as  though  she  had  been  in  peril  from  wild 
beasts. 

In  peril?  But  she  had  fallen.  He  could  not  save  her. 
Nothing  that  he  could  do  now  could  prevent  her  sin.  At  that 
realisation  utter  despair  seized  him ;  he  moaned  aloud,  shut- 
ting out  the  light  from  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

There  followed  then  wild  disbelief ;  what  she  had  told  him 
was  untrue,  she  had  said  it  to  anger  him,  to  spite  him.  He 
sprang  from  his  chair  and  moved  towards  the  door.  He  would 
find  her  and  tell  her  that  he  knew  that  she  had  been  lying  to 
him,  that  he  did  not  believe 

Mid-way  he  stopped.  He  knew  that  she  had  spoken  the 
truth,  that  last  moment  when  they  had  looked  at  one  another 
had  been  compounded,  built  up,  of  truth.  Both  a  glass  and 
a  wall — a  glass  to  reveal  absolutely,  a  wall  to  divide  them,  the 
one  from  the  other,  for  ever. 

His  brain,  active  now  like  a  snake  coiling  and  uncoiling 
within  the  flaming  spaces  of  his  mind,  darted  upon  Morris. 
He  must  find  Morris  at  once — no  delay — at  once — at  once. 
What  to  do  ?    He  did  not  know.    But  he  must  be  face  to  face 


390  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

with  him  and  deal  with  him — that  wretched,  miserable,  whin- 
ing, crying  fool.  That  he — ! — HE !  .  .  .  But  the  pic- 
ture stopped  thera  He  saw  now  neither  Morris  nor  his  wife. 
Only  a  clerical  hat,  a  high  white  collar  like  a  wall,  a  snigger- 
ing laugh,  a  door  closing. 

And  his  headache  was  upon  him  again,  his  heart  pounding 
and  leaping.  No  matter.  He  must  find  Morris.  Nothing 
else.  He  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  walked  cautiously 
into  the  hall  as  though  he  had  intruded  into  some  one  else's 
house  and  was  there  to  rob. 

As  he  came  into  the  hall  Mrs.  Brandon  was  crossing  it, 
also  furtively.  They  saw  one  another  and  stood  staring.  She 
would  have  spoken,  but  something  in  his  face  terrified  her, 
terrified  her  so  desperately  that  she  suddenly  turned  and 
stumbled  upstairs,  repeating  some  words  over  and  over  to 
herself.  He  did  not  move,  but  stayed  there  watching  until  she 
had  gone. 

Something  made  him  change  his  clothes.  He  put  on 
trousers  and  an  old  overcoat  and  a  shabby  old  clerical  hat.  Ho 
was  a  long  time  in  his  dressing-room,  and  he  was  a  while 
before  his  looking-glass  in  his  shirt  and  drawers,  staring  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  find  himself. 

While  he  looked  he  fancied  that  some  one  was  behind  him, 
and  he  searched  for  his  shadow  in  the  glass,  but  could  find 
nothing.  He  moved  cautiously  out  of  the  house,  closing  the 
heavy  hall-door  very  softly  behind  him;  the  afternoon  was 
advanced,  and  the  faint  fair  shadows  of  the  summer  evening 
were  stealing  from  place  to  place. 

He  had  intended  to  go  at  once  to  Morris's  house,  but  his 
head  was  now  aching  so  violently  that  he  thought  he  would 
walk  a  little  first  so  tliat  he  might  have  more  control.  That 
was  what  ho  wanted,  self-control !  self-control !  That  was 
their  plot,  to  make  him  lose  command  of  himself,  so  that 
he  should  show  to  every  one  that  he  was  unfit  to  hold  his  posi- 
tion. Ho  must  have  perfect  control  of  ever^'thing — his  voice, 
his  body,  his  thoughts.    And  that  was  why,  just  now,  he  must 


THEEB  JUBILEE  391 

walk  in  tlie  darker  places,  in  tlie  smaller  streets,  until  soon  lie 
would  be,  outwardly,  himself  again.  So  he  chose  for  his  walk 
the  little  dark  winding  path  that  runs  steeply  from  the 
Cathedral,  along  behind  Canon's  Yard  and  Bodger's  Street, 
down  to  the  Pol.  It  was  dark  here,  even  on  this  lovely  sum- 
mer evening,  and  no  one  was  about,  but  sounds  broke  through, 
cries  and  bells  and  the  distant  bray  of  bands,  and  from  the 
hill  opposite  the  clash  of  the  Fair. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  path  he  stood  for  a  while  looking  down 
the  bank  to  the  river;  here  the  Pol  runs  very  quietly  and 
sweetly,  like  a  little  country  river.  He  crossed  it  and,  still 
moving  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  started  up  the  hill  on  the  other 
side.  He  was  not,  now,  consciously  thinking  of  anything  at 
all ;  he  was  aware  only  of  a  great  pain  at  his  heart  and  a  ter- 
rible loneliness.  Loneliness !  What  an  agony !  !N"o  one  near 
him,  no  one  to  speak  to  him,  every  eye  mocking  him — God  as 
well,  far,  far  away  from  him,  hidden  by  walls  and  hills. 

As  he  climbed  upward  the  Fair  came  nearer  to  him.  He 
did  not  notice  it.  He  crossed  a  path  and  was  at  a  turnstile. 
A  man  asked  him  for  money.  He  paid  a  shilling  and  moved 
forward.  He  liked  crowds;  he  wanted  crowds  now.  Either 
crowds  or  no  one.  Crowds  where  he  W4»uld  be  lost  and  not 
noticed. 

So  many  thousands  were  there,  but  nevertheless  he  waa 
noticed.  That  was  the  Archdeacon.  Who  would  have  thought 
that  he  would  come  to  the  Fair  ?  Too  grand.  But  there  he 
was.  Yes,  that  was  the  Archdeacon.  That  tall  man  in  the 
soft  black  hat.  Yes,  some  noticed  him.  But  many  thousands 
did  not.  The  Fair  was  packed ;  strangers  from  all  the  county 
over,  sailors  and  gipsies  and  farmers  and  tramps,  women  no 
better  than  they  should  be,  and  shop-girls  and  decent  farmers' 
wives,  and  village  girls — all  sorts !  Thousands,  of  course,  to 
whom  the  Archdeacon  meant  nothing. 

And  that  was  a  Fair,  the  most  wonderful  our  town  had  ever 
seen,  the  most  wonderful  it  ever  was  to  see  I  As  with  many 
other  things,  that  Jubilee  Fair  marked  a  period.    No  Fairs 


/. 


392  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

again  like  the  good  old  Fairs — ^general  education  has  seen  to 
that 

It  was  a  Fair,  as  there  are  still  some  to  remember,  that  had 
in  it  a  strange  element  of  fantasy.  All  the  accustomed  accom- 
paniments of  Fairs  were  there — The  Two  Fat  Sisters  (out- 
side whose  booth  a  notice  was  posted  begging  the  public  not  to 
prod  with  umbrellas  to  discover  whether  the  Fat  were  Fat  or 
Wadding) ;  Trixie,  the  little  lady  with  neither  arms  nor  legs, 
sews  and  writes  with  her  teeth ;  the  Great  Albert,  the  strongest 
man  in  Europe,  who  will  lift  weights  against  all  comers; 
Battling  Edwardes,  the  Champion  Boxer  of  the  Southern 
Counties;  Hippo's  World  Circus,  with  six  monkeys,  two 
lions,  three  tigers  and  a  rhino;  all  the  pistol-firing,  ball- 
throwing,  coconut  contrivances  conceivable,  and  roundabouts 
at  every  turn. 

All  these  were  there,  but  behind  them,  on  the  outskirts  of 
them  and  yet  in  the  very  heart  of  them,  there  were  other  un- 
accustomed things. 

Some  said  that  a  ship  from  the  East  had  arrived  at  Dry- 
mouth,  and  that  certain  jugglers  and  Chinese  and  foreign  mer- 
chants, instead  of  going  on  to  London  as  they  had  intended, 
turned  to  Polchester.  How  do  I  know  at  this  time  of  day  ? 
How  do  we,  any  of  us,  know  how  anything  gets  here,  and 
what  does  it  matter  ?  But  there  is  at  this  very  moment,  liv- 
ing in  the  magnificently  renovated  Seatown,  an  old  China- 
man, who  came  in  Jubilee  Year,  and  has  been  there  ever 
since,  doing  washing  and  behaving  with  admirable  propriety, 
no  sign  of  opium  about  him  anywhere.  One  element  that  they 
introduced  was  Colour.  Our  modem  Fairs  are  not  very 
strong  in  the  element  of  Colour.  It  is  true  that  one  of  the 
roundabouts  was  ablaze  with  gilt  and  tinsel,  and  in  the  centre 
of  it,  whence  comes  the  music,  there  were  women  with  brazen 
faces  and  bosoms  of  gold.  It  is  true  also  that  outside  the 
Circus  and  the  Fat  Sisters  and  Battling  Edwardes  there  were 
flaming  pictures  with  reds  and  yellows  thrown  about  like  tem- 
perance tracts,  but  the  modem  figures  in  these  pictures  spoilt 


THREE  JUBILEE  393 

the  colour,  the  photography  spoilt  it — too  much  reality  where 
there  should  have  been  mystery,  too  much  mystery  where 
realism  was  needed. 

But  here,  only  two  yards  from  tiie  Circus,  was  a  booth 
hung  with  strange  cloths,  purple  and  yellow  and  crimson,  and 
behind  the  wooden  boards  a  man  and  a  woman  with  brown 
faces  and  busy,  twirling,  twisting,  brown  hands,  were  making 
strange  sweets  which  they  wrapped  into  coloured  packets,  and 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Fat  Sisters  there  was  a  tent  with  Li 
Hung  above  it  in  letters  of  gold  and  red,  and  inside  the  tents, 
boards  on  trestles,  and  on  the  boards  a  long  purple  cloth,  and 
on  the  cloth  little  toys  and  figures  and  images,  all  of  the  gay- 
est colours  and  the  strangest  shapes,  and  all  as  cheap  as 
nothing. 

Farther  down  the  lane  of  booths  was  the  tent  of  Hayakawa 
the  Juggler.  A  little  boy  in  primrose-coloured  tights  turned, 
on  a  board  outside  the  tent,  round  and  round  and  round  on 
his  head  like  a  teetotum,  and  inside,  once  every  half-hour, 
Hayakawa,  in  a  lovely  jacket  of  gold  and  silver,  gave  his  en- 
tertainment, eating  fire,  piercing  himself  with  silver  swords, 
finding  white  mice  in  his  toes,  and  pulling  ribbons  of  crimson 
and  scarlet  out  of  his  ears. 

Farther  away  again  there  were  the  Brothers  Gomez,  Span- 
iards perhaps,  dark,  magnificent  in  figure,  running  on  one 
wire  across  the  air,  balancing  sunshades  on  their  noses,  leap- 
ing, jumping,  standing  pyramid-high,  their  muscles  gleaming 
like  billiaT-d-balls. 

And  behind  and  before  and  in  and  out  there  were  strange 
figures  moving  through  the  Fair,  strange  voices  raised  against 
the  evening  sky,  strange  smells  of  cooking,  strange  songs  sud- 
denly rising,  dying  as  soon  as  heard. 

Only  a  breath  away  the  English  fields  were  quietly 
lying  safe  behind  their  hedges  and  the  English  sky  changed 
from  blue  to  green  and  from  green  to  mother-of-pearl,  and 
from  mother-of-pearl  to  ivory,  and  stars  stabbed,  like  silver 


394  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

nails,  the  great  canopy  of  heaven,  and  the  Cathedral  bells 
rang  peal  after  peal  above  the  slowlv  lighting  town. 

Brandon  was  conscious  of  little  of  this  as  he  moved  on. 
Even  the  thought  of  Morris  had  faded  from  him.  He  could 
not  think  consecutively.  His  mind  was  broken  up  like  a  mir- 
ror that  had  been  smashed  into  a  thousand  pieces.  He  was 
most  truly  in  a  dream.  Soon  he  would  wake  up,  out  of  this 
noise,  away  from  these  cries  and  lights,  and  would  find  it  all 
as  he  had  for  so  many  years  known  it.  He  would  be  sitting  in 
his  drawing-room,  his  legs  stretched  out,  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter near  to  him,  the  rumble  of  the  organ  coming  through  the 
wall  to  them,  thinking  perhaps  of  to-morrow's  duties,  the 
town  quiet  all  around  them,  friends  and  well-wishers  every- 
where, no  terrible  pain  in  his  head,  happily  arranging  how 
everything  should  be  .  .  .  happy  .  .  .  happy.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
how  happy  that  real  life  was!  When  he  awoke  from  his 
dream  he  would  realise  that  and  thank  God  for  it.  When 
ho  awoke.  .  .  .  He  stumbled  over  something,  and  looking 
up  realised  that  he  was  in  a  very  crowded  part  of  the  Fair, 
a  fire  was  blazing  somewhere  near,  gas-jets,  although  the  eve- 
ning was  bright  and  clear,  were  flaming,  screams  and  cries 
seemed  to  make  the  very  sky  rock  above  his  head. 

WTaere  was  he?  What  was  he  doing  here?  Why  had  ho 
come  ?    He  would  go  home.    He  turned. 

He  turned  to  face  the  fire  that  leapt  close  at  his  heel.  It 
was  burning  at  the  back  of  a  caravan,  in  a  dark  cul-de-sac 
away  from  the  main  thoroughfare;  to  its  blazing  light  the 
bare  boards  and  ugly  plankings  of  the  booth,  splashed  hero 
and  there  with  torn  paper  that  rustled  a  little  in  the  evening 
breeze,  were  all  that  otTered  themselves.  Near  by  a  hors^ 
untethered,  was  quietly  nosing  at  the  trodden  soil. 

Behind  the  caravan  the  field  ran  down  to  a  ditch  and  thick 
hedging. 

Brandon  stared  at  the  fire  as  though  absorbed  by  its  light. 
What  did  he  see  there?  Visions  perhaps?  Did  he  see  tho 
Cathedral,  the  Precincts,  the  quiet  circle  of  demure  old  houses, 


THREE  JUBILEE  395 

his  own  door,  his  own  bedroom  ?  Did  he  see  his  wife  moving 
hurriedly  about  the  room,  opening  drawers  and  shutting  them, 
pausing  for  a  moment  to  listen,  then  coming  out,  closing  the 
door,  listening  again,  then  stepping  downstairs,  pausing  for 
a  moment  in  the  hall  to  lay  something  on  the  table,  then  step- 
ping out  into  the  green  wavering  evening  light  ?  Or  did  the 
flames  make  pictures  for  him  of  the  deserted  railway-station, 
the  long  platform,  lit  only  by  one  lamp,  two  figures  meeting, 
exchanging  almost  no  word,  pacing  for  a  little  in  silence  the 
dreary  spaces,  stepping  back  as  the  London  express  rolled 
in — such  a  safe  night  to  choose  for  escape — then  burying 
themselves  in  it  like  rabbits  in  their  burrow  ? 

Did  his  vision  lead  him  back  to  the  deserted  house,  silent 
save  for  its  ticking  clocks,  black  in  that  ring  of  lights  and 
bells  and  shouting  voices  ? 

Or  was  he  conscious  only  of  the  warmth  and  the  life  of  the 
fire,  of  some  sudden  companionship  with  the  woman  bending 
over  it  to  stir  the  sticks  and  lift  some  pot  from  the  heart  of 
the  flame  ?  He  was  feeling,  perhaps,  a  sudden  peace  here  and 
a  silence,  and  was  aware  of  the  stars  breaking  into  beauty  one 
by  one  above  his  head. 

But  his  peace,  if  for  a  moment  he  had  found  it,  was  soon 
interrupted.  A  voice  that  he  knew  came  across  to  him  from 
the  other  side  of  the  fire. 

"Why,  Archdeacon,  who  would  have  thought  to  find  you 
here?" 

He  looked  up  and  saw,  through  the  fire,  the  face  of  Davray 
the  painter. 

He  turned  to  go,  and  at  once  Davray  was  at  his  side. 

"No.  Don't  go.  You're  in  my  country  now,  Archdeacon, 
not  your  own.  You're  not  cock  of  this  walk,  you  know.  Last 
time  we  met  you  thought  you  owned  the  place.  Well,  you 
can't  think  you  own  this.  Fight  it  out,  Mr.  Archdeacon, 
fight  it  out." 

Brandon  answered: 


396  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"I  have  no  quarrel  with  you,  Mr.  Davray.  Nor  have  I 
anything  to  say  to  you." 

"No  quarrel  ?  I  like  that.  I'd  knock  your  face  in  for  two- 
pence, you  blasted  hypocrite.  And  I  will  too.  All  free 
ground  here." 

Davray's  voice  was  shrill.  He  was  swaying  on  his  legs. 
The  woman  looked  up  from  the  fire  and  watched  them. 

Brandon  turned  his  back  to  him  and  saw,  facing  him, 
Samuel  Hogg  and  some  men  behind  him. 

"Why,  good  evening,  Mr.  Archdeacon,"  said  Hogg,  taking 
off  his  hat  and  bowing.  "What  a  delightful  place  for  a 
meeting!" 

Brandon  said  quietly,  "Is  there  anything  you  want  with 
me?"    He  realised  at  once  that  Hogg  was  drunk. 

"Nothing,"  said  Hogg,  "except  to  give  you  a  damned  good 
hiding.  I've  been  waiting  for  that  these  many  weeks.  See 
him,  boys,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  men  behind  him. 
"  'Ere's  this  parson  who  ruined  my  daughter — as  fine  a  girl 
as  ever  you've  seen — ruined  'er,  he  did — him  and  his  blasted 
son.  Wliat  d'you  say,  boys?  Is  it  right  for  him  to  be 
paradin'  round  liere  as  proud  as  a  peacock  and  nobody  touch- 
in'  him?  What  d'you  say  to  givin'  him  a  damned  good 
hiding?" 

The  men  smiled  and  pressed  forward.  Davray  from  the 
other  side  suddenly  lurched  into  Brandon.  Brandon  struck 
out,  and  Davray  fell  and  lay  where  he  fell. 

Hogg  cried,  "Now  for  'im,  boys ",  and  at  once  they 

were  upon  him.  Hogg's  face  rose  before  Brandon's,  extended, 
magnified  in  all  its  details.  Brandon  hit  out  and  then  was 
conscious  of  blows  upon  his  face,  of  some  one  kicking  him  in 
the  back,  of  himself  hitting  wildly,  of  the  fire  leaping  moun- 
tains-high behind  him,  of  a  woman's  cry,  of  something  trick- 
ling down  into  his  eye,  of  sudden  contact  with  warm,  naked, 
sweating  flesh,  of  a  small  pinched  face,  the  eyes  almost  closed, 
rising  before  him  and  falling  again,  of  a  shout,  then  sudden 
silence  and  himself  on  his  knees  groping  in  darkness  for  his 


THEEE  JUBILEE  397 

hat,  of  his  voice  far  from  him  nmnnuring  to  him,  "It's  all 
right.    .    .    .   It's  my  hat  .    .    .   it's  mj  hat  I  must  find." 

He  wiped  his  forehead.  The  back  of  his  hand  was  covered 
with  blood. 

He  saw  once  again  the  fire,  low  now  and  darkly  illumined 
by  some  more  distant  light,  heard  the  scream  of  the  merry-go- 
round,  stared  about  him  and  saw  no  living  soul,  climbed  to 
his  feet  and  saw  the  stars,  then  very  slowly,  like  a  blind  man 
in  the  dark,  felt  his  way  to  the  field's  edge,  found  a  gate, 
passed  through  and  collapsed,  shuddering  in  the  hedge's 
darkness. 


CHAPTER  Vn 

TUESDAY,  JUNE  22:  III.    TORCHLIGHT 

JOAN  came  home  about  seven  o'clock  that  evening.  Din- 
ner was  at  half-past  seven,  and  after  dinner  she  was  going 
to  the  Deanery  to  watch  the  Torchlight  Procession  from  the 
Deanery  garden.  She  had  had  the  most  wonderful  after- 
noon. Mrs.  Combermere,  who  had  been  very  kind  to  her 
lately,  had  taken  her  up  to  the  Flower  Show  in  the  Castle 
grounds,  and  there  she  had  had  the  most  marvellous  and 
beautiful  talk  with  Johnny.  They  had  talked  right  imder 
his  mother's  nose,  so  to  speak,  and  had  settled  everj'thing. 
Yee — simply  everything!  They  had  told  one  another  that 
their  love  was  immortal,  that  nothing  could  touch  it,  nor 
lessen  it,  nor  twist  it — nothing! 

Joan,  on  her  side,  had  stated  that  she  would  never  be  en- 
gaged to  Johnny  until  his  mother  consented,  and  that  until 
they  were  engaged  they  must  behave  exactly  as  though  they 
were  not  engaged,  that  is,  never  see  one  another  alone,  never 
write  letters  that  might  not  be  read  by  any  one ;  but  she  had 
also  asserted  that  no  representations  on  the  part  of  anybody 
that  she  was  mining  Johnny,  or  that  she  was  a  nasty  little 
intriguer,  or  that  nice  girls  didn't  behave  "so,"  would  make 
the  slightest  difference  to  her ;  that  she  knew  what  she  was  and 
Johnny  knew  what  he  was,  and  that  was  enough  for  both  of 
them. 

Johnny  on  his  side  had  said  that  he  would  be  patient  for  a 
time  under  this  arrangement,  but  that  the  time  would  not  be 
a  very  long  one,  and  that  she  couldn't  object  to  accepting  a 

398 


JUBILEE  399 

little  ring  that  he  had  bought  for  her,  that  she  needn't  wear 
it,  but  just  keep  it  beside  her  to  remind  her  of  him. 

But  Joan  had  said  that  to  take  the  ring  would  be  as  good 
as  to  be  engaged,  and  that  therefore  she  would  not  take  it, 
but  that  he  could  keep  it  ready  for  the  day  of  their  betrothal. 

She  had  come  home,  through  the  lovely  evening,  in  such  a 
state  of  happiness  that  she  was  forced  to  tell  Mrs.  Comber- 
mere  all  about  it,  and  Mrs.  Combermere  had  been  a  darling 
and  assured  her  that  she  was  quite  right  in  all  that  she  had 
done,  and  that  it  made  her,  Mrs.  Combermere,  feel  quite 
young  again,  and  that  she  would  help  them  in  every  way  that 
she  could,  and  parting  at  the  Arden  Gate,  she  had  kissed  Joan 
just  as  though  she  were  her  very  own  daughter. 

So  Joan,  shining  with  happiness,  came  back  to  the  house. 
It  seemed  very  quiet  after  the  sun  and  glitter  and  laughter  of 
the  Flower  Show.  She  went  straight  up  to  her  room  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  washed  her  face  and  hands,  brushed  her 
hair  and  put  on  her  white  frock. 

As  she  came  downstairs  the  clock  struck  half-past  seven. 
In  the  hall  she  met  Gladys. 

"Please,  miss,"  said  Gladys,  "is  dinner  to  be  kept  back?" 

"Why,"  said  Joan,  "isn't  mother  in  ?" 

"'No,  miss,  she  went  out  about  six  o'clock  and  she  hasn't 
come  in." 

"Isn't  father  in?" 

"j^o,  miss," 

"Did  she  say  that  she'd  be  late?" 

"No,  miss." 

"Oh,  well — ^we  must  wait  until  mother  comes  in."    - 

"Yes,  miss." 

She  saw  then  a  letter  on  the  hall-table.  She  picked  it  up. 
It  was  addressed  to  her  father,  a  note  left  by  somebody.  She 
thought  nothing  of  that — notes  were  so  often  left ;  the  hand- 
writing was  exactly  like  her  mother's,  but  of  course  it  could 
not  be  hers.     She  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

Here  the  silence  was  oppressive.    She  walked  up  and  down, 


400  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

looking  out  of  the  long  windows  at  the  violet  dusk.  Gladys 
came  in  to  draw  the  blinds. 

"Didn't  mother  saj  anything  about  when  she'd  be  in  ?" 

"No,  miss." 

"She  left  no  message  for  me  ?" 

"No,  miss.    Your  mother  seemed  in  a  hurrj  like.** 

"She  didn't  ask  where  I  was  ?" 

"No,  miss." 

"Did  she  go  out  with  father?" 

"No,  miss — ^your  father  went  out  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
earlier." 

Gladys  coughed.  "Please,  miss,  Cook  and  me's  wanting  to 
go  out  and  see  the  Procession." 

"Oh,  of  course  you  must.  But  that  won't  be  until  half- 
past  nine.     They  come  past  here,  you  know." 

"Yes,  miss." 

Joan  picked  up  the  new  number  of  the  Comhtll  Magazine 
and  tried  to  settle  down.  But  she  was  restless.  Her  own 
happiness  made  her  so.  And  then  the  house  was  "quoer." 
It  had  the  sense  of  itself  waiting  for  some  eflFort,  and  holding 
its  breath  in  expectation. 

As  Joan  sat  there  trying  to  read  the  ComhUl  serial,  and 
most  sadly  failing,  it  seemed  to  her  stranger  and  stranger  that 
her  mother  was  not  in.  She  had  not  been  well  lately ;  Joan 
had  noticed  how  white  she  had  looked;  she  had  always  a 
"headache"  when  you  asked  her  how  she  was.  Joan  had  fan- 
cied that  she  had  never  been  the  same  since  Falk  had  been 
away.  She  had  a  letter  in  her  dress  now  from  Falk.  She 
took  it  out  and  read  it  over  again.  As  to  himself  it  had  only 
good  news;  he  was  well  and  happy,  Annie  was  "splendid." 
His  work  went  on  finely.  His  only  sadness  was  his  breach 
with  his  father;  again  and  again  he  broke  out  about  this,  and 
begged,  implored  Joan  to  do  something.  If  she  did  not,  he 
said,  ho  would  soon  come  down  himself  and  risk  a  row.  There 
was  one  sentence  towards  the  end  of  the  letter  which  read 
oddly  to  Joan  just  now.     "I  suppose  the  old  man's  in  his 


THESE  JUBILEE  401 

proper  element  over  all  the  Jubilee  celebrations.  I  can  see 
him  strutting  up  and  down  the  Cathedral  as  though  he  owned 
every  stone  in  it,  bless  his  old  heart !  I  tell  you,  Joan,  I  just 
ache  to  see  him.  I  do  really.  Annie's  father  hasn't  been 
near  us  since  we  came  up  here.  Funny !  I'd  have  thought 
he'd  have  bothered  me  long  before  this.  I'm  ready  for  him 
if  he  comes.  By  the  way,  if  mother  shows  any  signs  of  want- 
ing to  come  up  to  town  just  now,  do  your  best  to  prevent  her. 
Father  needs  her,  and  it's  her  place  to  look  after  him.  I've 
special  reasons  for  saying  this.    ..." 

"What  a  funny  thing  for  Falk  to  say !  and  the  only  allusion 
to  his  mother  in  the  whole  of  the  letter. 

Joan  smiled  to  herself  as  she  read  it.  What  did  Falk  think 
her  power  was  ?  Why,  her  mother  and  father  had  never  list- 
ened to  her  for  a  single  moment,  nor  had  he,  Falk,  when  he 
had  been  at  home.  She  had  never  counted  at  all — to  any  one 
save  Johnny.  She  put  down  the  letter  and  tried  to  lose  her- 
self in  the  happy  country  of  her  own  love,  but  she  could  not. 
Her  honesty  prevented  her;  its  silence  was  now  oppressive 
and  heavy-weighted.  Where  could  her  mother  be  ?  And  dinner 
already  half  an  hour  late  in  that  so  utterly  punctual  house! 
What  had  Falk  meant  about  mother  going  to  London  ?  Of 
course  she  would  not  go  to  London — at  any  rate  without 
father.  How  could  Falk  imagine  such  a  thing  ?  More  than 
an  hour  passed. 

She  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  wondering  what  she 
should  do  about  the  dinner.  She  must  give  up  the  Samp- 
sons, and  she  was  very  hungry.  She  had  had  no  tea  at  the 
Flower  Show  and  very  little  luncheon. 

She  was  about  to  go  and  speak  to  Gladys  when  she  heard 
the  hall  door  open.  It  closed.  Something — some  unexpressed 
fear  or  foreboding — ^kept  her  where  she  was.  Steps  were  in 
the  hall,  but  they  were  not  her  father's;  he  always  moved 
with  determined  stride  to  his  study  or  the  stairs.  These  steps 
hesitated  and  faltered  as  though  some  one  were  there  who 
did  not  know  the  house. 


402  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

At  last  she  went  into  the  hall  and  saw  that  it  was  indeed 
her  father  now  going  slowly  upstairs. 

"Father!"  she  cried;  "I'm  so  glad  you're  in.  Dinner's 
been  waiting  for  hours.    Shall  I  tell  them  to  send  it  up  ?" 

He  did  not  answer  nor  look  back.  She  went  to  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs  and  said  again: 

"Shall  I,  father?" 

But  still  he  did  not  answer.  She  heard  him  close  his  door 
behind  him. 

She  went  back  into  the  drawing-room  terribly  frightened. 
There  was  something  in  the  bowed  head  and  slow  steps  that 
terrified  her,  and  suddenly  she  was  aware  that  she  had  been 
frightened  for  many  weeks  past,  but  that  she  had  never  owned 
to  herself  that  it  was  so. 

She  waited  for  a  long  time  wondering  what  she  should  do. 
At  last,  calling  her  courage,  she  climbed  the  stairs,  waited, 
and  then,  as  though  compelled  by  the  overhanging  silence  of 
the  house,  knocked  on  his  dressing-room  door. 

"Father,  what  shall  we  do  about  dinner?  Mother  hasn't 
come  in  yet."    There  was  no  answer. 

"Will  you  have  dinner  now?"  she  asked  again. 

A  voice  suddenly  answered  her  as  though  he  were  listen- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  "No,  no.  I  want  no 
dinner." 

She  went  down  again,  told  Gladys  that  she  would  eat  some- 
thing, then  sat  in  the  lonely  dining-room  swallowing  her  soup 
and  cutlet  in  the  utmost  haste. 

Something  was  terribly  wrong.  Her  father  was  covering 
all  the  rest  of  her  view — the  Jubilee,  her  mother,  even 
Johnny.  He  was  in  great  trouble,  and  she  must  help  him, 
but  she  felt  desperately  her  youth,  her  inexperience,  her  in- 
adequacy. 

She  waited  again,  when  she  had  finished  her  meal,  wonder- 
ing what  she  had  better  do.  Oh !  how  stupid  not  to  know 
instantly  the  right  thing  and  to  feel  this  fear  when  it  was  her 
own  father  1 


THREE  JUBILEE  403 

She  went  half-way  upstairs,  and  then  stood  listening.  "No 
sound.  Again  she  waited  outside  his  door.  With  trembling 
hand  she  turned  the  handle.  He  faced  her,  staring  at  her. 
On  his  left  temple  was  a  big  black  bruise,  on  his  forehead  a 
cut,  and  on  his  left  cheek  a  thin  red  mark  that  looked  like  a 
scratch. 

"Father,  you're  hurt !" 

"Yes,  I  fell  down — stumbled  over  something,  coming  up 
from  the  river."  He  looked  at  her  impatiently.  "Well,  well, 
what  is  it  ?" 

"Nothing,  father — only  they're  still  keeping  some  din- 
ner  " 

"I  don't  want  anything.    Where  is  your  mother  ?" 

"She  hasn't  come  back." 

"Not  come  back  ?    Why,  where  did  she  go  to  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    Gladys  says  she  went  out  about  six." 

He  pushed  past  her  into  the  passage.  He  went  down  into 
the  hall ;  she  followed  him  timidly.  From  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs  he  saw  the  letter  on  the  table,  and  he  went  straight  to  it. 
He  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read : 

I  have  left  you  for  ever.  All  that  I  told  you  on  Sunday  night 
was  true,  and  you  may  use  that  information  as  you  please. 
Whatever  may  come  to  me,  at  least  I  know  that  I  am  never  to 
live  under  the  same  roof  with  you  again,  and  that  is  happiness 
enough  for  me,  whatever  other  misery  there  may  be  in  store 
for  me.  Now,  at  last,  perhaps,  you  will  realise  that  loneliness 
is  worse  than  any  other  hell,  and  that's  the  hell  you've  made  me 
suffer  for  twenty  years.  Look  around  you  and  see  what  your 
selfishness  has  done  for  you.  It  will  be  useless  to  try  to  per- 
suade me  to  return  to  you.  I  hope  to  God  that  I  shall  never 
see  you  again.  Amy. 

He  turned  and  said  in  his  ordinary  voice,  "Your  mother 
has  left  me." 

He  came  across  to  her,  suddenly  caught  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders, and  said :  "Now,  you'd  better  go,  do  you  hear  ?  They've 
all  left  me,  your  mother,  Falk,  all  of  them.    They've  fallen  on 


404  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

me  and  beaten  me.  They've  kicked  me.  They've  spied  on  me 
and  mocked  ma  Well,  then,  you  join  them.  Do  you  hear? 
What  do  you  stay  for  ?  Why  do  you  remain  with  me  ?  Do 
you  hear?    Do  you  hear?" 

She  understood  nothing.  Her  terror  caught  her  like  the 
wind.  She  crouched  back  against  the  bannisters,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hand. 

"Don't  hit  me,  father.    Please,  please  don't  hit  ma" 

He  stood  over  her,  staring  down  at  her. 

"It's  a  plot,  and  you  must  be  in  it  with  the  others.  .  .  . 
Well,  go  and  tell  them  they've  won.  Tell  them  to  come  and 
kick  mo  again.  I'm  down  now.  I'm  beaten ;  go  and  tell  them 
to  come  in — to  come  and  take  my  house  and  my  clothes.  Your 
mother's  gone — follow  her  to  London,  then." 

He  turned.  She  heard  him  go  into  the  drawing-room. 
Suddenly,  although  she  still  did  not  understand  what  had  hap- 
pened, she  knew  that  she  must  follow  him  and  care  for  him. 
He  had  pulled  the  curtains  aside  and  thrown  up  the  windows.* 

"Let  them  come  in !    Let  them  come  in !    I — I " 

Suddenly  he  turned  towards  her  and  held  out  his  arms. 

"I  can't — I  can't  bear  any  more."  He  fell  on  his  knees, 
burying  his  face  in  the  shoulder  of  the  chair.    Then  he  cried : 

"Oh,  God,  spare  me  now,  spare  me!  I  cannot  bear  any 
more.  Thou  hast  chastised  me  enough.  Oh,  God,  don't  take 
my  sanity  from  me — leave  me  that.  Oh,  God,  leave  me  that  I 
Thou  hast  taken  everything  else.  I  have  been  beaten  and 
betrayed  and  deserted.  I  confess  my  wickedness,  my  arro- 
gance, my  pride,  but  it  was  in  Thy  service.  Leave  me  my 
mind.  Oh,  God,  spare  me,  spare  me,  and  forgive  her  who  has 
Binned  so  grievously  against  Thy  laws.  Oh,  God,  God,  save 
me  from  madness,  save  me  from  madness." 

In  that  moment  Joan  became  a  woman.  Her  love,  her  own 
life,  she  threw  everything  away. 

She  went  over  to  him,  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  kissed 
him,  fondled  him,  pressing  her  check  against  his. 


THEEE  JUBILEE  405 

*T)ear,  dear  father.  I  love  you  so.  I  love  yon.  8(J,  Ko  one 
fihall  hurt  you.    Father  dear,  father  darling." 

Suddenly  the  room  was  blazing  with  light.  The  Torch- 
light Procession  tumbled  into  the  Precincts.  The  Cathedral 
sprang  into  light ;  on  all  the  hills  the  bonfires  were  blazing. 

Black  figures  scattered  like  dwarfs,  pigmies,  giants  about 
tiie  grass.    The  torches  tossed  and  whirled  and  danced. 

The  Cathedral  rose  from  the  darkness,  triumphant  in  gold 
and  fire. 


BOOK    IV 
THE  LAST  STAND 


CHAPTER  I 

HT  eoitder's  house:  eondeb.    wistons 

T7  VERY  one  has,  at  one  time  or  another,  known  the  experi- 
-'— '  ence  of  watching  some  friend  or  acquaintance  moved 
suddenly  from  the  ordinary  atmosphere  of  every  day  into 
some  dramatic  region  of  crisis  where  he  becomes,  for  a 
moment,  far  more  than  life-size  in  his  struggle  against  the 
elements;  he  is  lifted,  like  Siegmund  in  The  Valkyrie,  into 
the  clouds  for  his  last  and  most  desperate  duel. 

There  was  something  of  this  feeling  in  the  attitude  taken 
in  our  town  after  the  Jubilee  towards  Archdeacon  Brandon. 
As  Miss  Stiles  said  (not  meaning  it  at  all  unkindly),  it  really 
was  very  fortunate  for  everybody  that  the  town  had  the  excite- 
ment of  the  Pybus  appointment  to  follow  immediately  the 
Jubilee  drama ;  had  it  not  been  so,  how  flat  would  every  one 
have  been!  And  by  the  Pybus  appointment  she  meant,  of 
course,  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  Archdeacon  Brandon,  and  the 
issue  of  his  contest  with  delightful,  clever  Canon  Render. 

The  disappearance  of  Mrs.  Brandon  and  Mr.  Morris  would 
have  been  excitement  enough  quite  by  itself  for  any  one  year. 
As  every  one  said,  the  wives  of  Archdeacons  simply  did  not 
run  away  with  the  clergymen  of  their  town.  It  was  not  done. 
It  had  never,  within  any  one's  living  memory,  been  done  be- 
fore, whether  in  Polchester  or  anywhere  else. 

Clergymen  were,  of  course,  only  human  like  any  one  els^ 
and  so  were  their  wives,  but  at  least  they  did  not  make  a  pub- 
lic declaration  of  their  failings ;  they  remembered  their  posi- 
tions, who  they  were  and  what  they  were. 

In  one  sense  there  had  been  no  public  declaration.    Mrs, 

409 


410  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Brandon  had  gone  up  to  London  to  see  about  some  business, 
and  Mr.  Morris  also  happened  to  be  away,  and  his  sister-in- 
law  was  living  on  in  the  Rectory  exactly  as  though  nothing 
had  occurred.  However,  that  disguise  could  not  hold  for  long, 
and  every  one  knew  exactly  what  had  happened — well,  if  not 
exactly,  every  one  had  a  very  good  individual  version  of  the 
whole  story. 

And  through  it  all,  above  it,  behind  it  and  beyond  it, 
towered  the  figure  of  the  Archdeacon.  He  was  the  question, 
he  the  centre  of  the  drama.  There  were  a  hundred  different 
stories  running  around  the  town  as  to  what  exactly  had  hap- 
pened to  him  during  those  Jubilee  days.  Was  it  true  that  he 
had  taken  Miss  Milton  by  the  scruff  of  her  long  neck  and 
thro^\'n  her  out  of  the  house  ?  Was  it  true  that  he  had  taken 
his  coat  off  in  the  Cloisters  and  given  Render  two  black  eyes  ? 
(The  only  drawback  to  this  story  was  that  Render  showed  no 
sign  of  bruises.)  Had  he  and  Mrs.  Brandon  fought  up  and 
down  the  house  for  the  whole  of  a  night,  Joan  assisting? 
And,  above  all,  what  occurred  at  the  Jubilee  Fair?  Had 
Brandon  been  set  upon  by  a  lot  of  ruffians  ?  Was  it  true  that 
Samuel  Hogg  had  revenged  himself  for  his  daughter's  abduc- 
tion ?  No  one  knew.  No  one  knew  anything  at  all.  The 
only  certain  thing  was  that  the  Archdeacon  had  a  bruise  on 
his  temple  and  a  scratch  on  his  cheek,  and  that  he  was  "queer," 
oh,  yes,  very  queer  indeed ! 

It  was  finally  about  this  "queemess"  that  the  gossip  of  the 
town  most  persistently  clung.  Many  people  said  that  they 
had  watched  him  "going  queer"  for  a  long  while  back,  entirely 
forgetting  that  only  a  year  ago  he  had  been  the  most  vigorous, 
healthiest,  sanest  man  in  the  place.  Old  Puddifoot,  with 
all  sorts  of  nods,  winks  and  murmurs,  alluded  to  mysterious 
medical  secrets,  and  "how  much  he  could  tell  an'  he  would," 
and  that  "he  had  said  years  ago  about  Brandon.  ..." 
Well,  never  mind  what  he  had  said,  but  it  was  all  turning  out 
exactly  as,  for  years,  he  had  expected. 

Nothing  is  stranger  (and  perhaps  more  fortunate)  than  the 


FOUE 


THE  LAST  STAND  411 


speed  with  which  the  past  is  forgotten.  Brandon  might  have 
been  all  his  days  the  odd,  muttering,  eye-wandering  figure 
that  he  now  appeared.  Where  was  the  Viking  now  ?  Where 
the  finest  specimen  of  physical  health  in  all  Glebeshire? 
Where  the  King  and  Crowned  Monarch  of  Polchester  ? 

In  the  dust  and  debris  of  the  broken  past.  "Poor  old 
Archdeacon."  "A  bit  queer  in  the  upper  storey."  "Not  to 
be  wondered  at  after  all  the  trouble  he's  had."  "They 
break  up  quickly,  those  strong-looking  men."  "Bit  too 
pleased  with  himself,  he  was."  "Ah,  well,  he's  served  his 
time ;  what  we  need  are  more  modern  men.  You  can't  deny 
that  he  was  old-fashioned." 

People  were  not  altogether  to  be  blamed  for  this  sudden 
sense  that  they  were  stepping  into  a  new  period,  out  of  one 
room  into  another,  so  to  speak.  The  Jubilee  was  responsible 
for  that.  It  did  mark  a  period,  and  looking  back  now  after 
all  these  years  one  can  see  that  that  impression  was  a  true 
one.  The  Jubilee  of  '97,  the  Boer  War,  the  death  of  Queen 
Victoria^ — the  end  of  the  Victorian  Era  for  Church  as 
well  as  for  State. 

And  there  were  other  places  beside  Polchester  that  could 
show  their  typical  figures  doomed,  as  it  were,  to  die  for  their 
Period — no  mean  nor  unworthy  death  after  all. 

But  no  Polcastrian  in  '97  knew  that  that  service  in  the 
Cathedral,  that  scratch  on  the  Archdeacon's  cheek,  that  visit 
of  Mrs.  Brandon  to  London — that  these  things  were  for  them 
the  Writing  on  the  Wall.  June  1897  and  August  1914  were 
not,  happily  for  them,  linked  together  in  immortal  signifi- 
cance— their  eyes  were  set  on  the  personal  history  of  the  men 
and  women  who  were  moving  before  them.  Had  Brandon  in 
the  pride  of  his  heart  not  claimed  God  as  his  ally,  would  men 
have  died  at  Ypres  ?  Can  any  bounds  be  placed  to  one  act  of 
love  and  unselfishness,  to  a  single  deed  of  mean  heart  and 
malicious  tongue? 

It  was  enough  for  our  town  that  "Brandon  and  his  ways" 


412  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

were  out-of-date,  and  it  was  a  lucky  thing  that  as  modem 
a  man  as  Render  had  come  amongst  us. 

And  yet  not  altogether,  Brandon  in  prosperity  was  one 
thing,  Brandon  in  misfortune  quite  another.  He  had  been 
abominably  treated.  What  had  he  ever  done  that  was  not 
actuated  absolutely  by  zeal  for  the  town  and  the  Cathedral  ? 

And,  after  all,  had  that  man  Render  acted  straight  ?  He 
was  fair  and  genial  enough  outwardly,  but  who  could  tell 
what  went  on  behind  those  round  spectacles?  There  were 
strange  stories  of  intrigue  about.  Had  he  not  determined  to 
push  Brandon  out  of  the  place  from  the  first  moment  of  his 
arrival  ?  And  as  far  as  this  Pybus  living  went,  it  was  all 
very  well  to  be  modem  and  advanced,  but  wasn't  Render  advo- 
cating for  the  appointment  a  man  who  laughed  at  the  Gospels 
and  said  that  there  were  no  such  things  as  snakes  and  apples 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden  ?  After  all,  he  was  a  foreigner,  and 
Brandon  belonged  to  them.     Poor  old  Brandon ! 

Ronder  was  in  his  study,  waiting  for  Wistons.  Wistons 
had  come  to  Polchester  for  a  night  to  see  his  friend  Foster. 
It  was  an  entirely  private  visit,  unknown  to  anybody  save 
two  or  three  of  his  friends  among  the  clergy.  He  had  asked 
whether  Ronder  could  spare  him  half  an  hour.  Ronder  was 
delighted  to  spare  it.    .    .    . 

Ronder  was  in  the  liveliest  spirits.  He  hummed  a  little 
chant  to  himself  as  he  paced  his  study,  stopping,  as  was  his 
habit,  to  touch  something  on  his  table,  to  push  back  a  book 
more  neatly  into  its  row  on  the  shelf,  to  stare  for  an  instant 
out  of  the  window  into  the  green  garden  drenched  with  the 
afternoon  sun. 

Yes,  he  was  in  admirable  spirits.  He  had  known  some 
weeks  of  acute  discomfort.  That  phase  was  over,  his  talk 
with  Brandon  in  the  Cloisters  after  the  Cathedral  service  had 
closed  it  On  that  occasion  he  had  put  himself  entirely  in  the 
right,  having  been  before  that,  under  the  eye  of  his  aunt  and 
certain  critics  in  the  town,  ever  so  slightly  in  the  wrong.    Now 


pouE  THE  LAST  STAND  413 

he  was  justified.  He  had  humbled  himself  before  Brandon 
(when  really  there  was  no  reason  to  do  so),  apologised  (when 
truly  there  was  not  the  slightest  need  for  it) — Brandon  had 
utterly  rejected  his  apology,  turned  on  him  as  though  he  were 
a  thief  and  a  robber — he  had  done  all  that  he  could,  mor^ 
far  more,  than  his  case  demanded. 

So  his  comfort,  his  dear  consoling  comfort,  had  returned  to 
him  completely.  And  with  it  had  returned  all  his  affection, 
his  tenderness  for  Brandon.  Poor  man,  deserted!  by  his  wife, 
past  his  work,  showing  as  he  so  obviously  did  in  the  Jubilee 
week  that  his  brain  (never  very  agile)  was  now  quite  inert, 
poor  man,  poor,  poor  man !  Bonder,  as  he  walked  his  study, 
simply  longed  to  do  something  for  Brandon — to  give  him 
something,  make  him  a  generous  present,  to  go  to  London  and 
persuade  his  poor  weak  wife  to  return  to  him,  anything,  any- 
thing to  make  him  happy  again. 

Too  sad  to  see  the  poor  man's  pale  face,  restless  eyes,  to 
watch  his  hurried,  uneasy  walk,  as  though  he  were  suspicious 
of  every  man.  Everywhere  now  Bonder  sang  Brandon's 
praises — what  fine  work  he  had  done  in  the  past,  how  much 
the  Church  owed  him ;  where  would  Polchester  have  been  in 
the  past  without  him  ? 

"I  assure  you,"  Bonder  said  to  Mrs.  Preston,  meeting  her 
in  the  High  Street,  "the  Archdeacon's  work  may  be  over,  but 
when  I  think  of  what  the  Church  owes  him " 

To  which  Mrs.  Preston  had  said:  "Ah,  Canon,  how  you 
search  for  the  Beauty  in  human  life !  You  are  a  lesson  to  all 
of  us.  After  all,  to  find  Beauty  in  even  the  meanest  and  most 
disappointing,  that  is  our  task !" 

There  was  no  doubt  but  that  Bonder  had  come  magnifi- 
cently through  the  Jubilee  week.  It  had  in  every  way 
strengthened  and  confirmed  his  already  strong  position.  He 
had  been  everywhere;  had  added  gaiety  and  sunshine  to  the 
Flower  Show ;  had  preached  a  most  wonderful  sermon  at  the 
evening  service  on  the  Tuesday ;  had  addressed,  from  the  steps 
of  his  house,  the  Torchlight  Procession  in  exactly  the  right 


414  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

words ;  had  patted  all  the  children  on  the  head  at  the  Mayor's 
tea  for  the  townspeople ;  had  enchanted  everywhere.  That  for 
which  he  had  worked  had  been  accomplished,  and  accom- 
plished with  wonderful  speed. 

He  was  firmly  established  as  the  leading  Churchman  in 
Polchester;  only  now  let  the  Pybus  living  go  in  the  right 
direction  (as  it  must  do),  and  he  would  have  nothing  more  to 
wish  for. 

He  loved  the  place.  As  he  looked  down  into  the  garden 
and  thought  of  the  years  of  pleasant  comfort  and  happiness 
now  stretching  in  front  of  him,  his  heart  swelled  with  love  of 
his  fellow  human  beings.  He  longed,  here  and  now,  to  do 
something  for  some  one,  to  give  some  children  pennies,  some 
poor  old  men  a  good  meal,  to  lend  some  one  his  pounds,  to 
speak  a  good  word  in  public  for  some  one  maligned,  to 

"Mr.  Wistons,  sir,"  said  the  maid.  When  he  turned  round 
only  his  exceeding  politeness  prevented  him  from  a  whistle  of 
astonishment.  He  had  never  seen  a  photograph  of  Wistons, 
and  the  man  had  never  been  described  to  him. 

From  all  that  he  had  heard  and  read  of  him,  he  had  pic- 
tured him  a  tall,  lean  ascetic,  a  kind  of  Dante  and  Savonarola 
in  one,  a  magnificent  figure  of  protest  and  abjuration.  This 
man  who  now  came  towards  him  was  little,  thin,  indeed,  but 
almost  deformed,  seeming  to  have  one  shoulder  higher  than 
the  other,  and  to  halt  ever  so  slightly  on  one  foot.  His  face 
was  positively  ugly,  redeemed  only,  as  Render,  who  was  no 
mean  observer,  at  once  perceived,  by  large  and  penetrating 
eyes.  The  eyes,  indeed,  were  beautiful,  of  a  wonderful  soft- 
ness and  intelligence. 

His  hair  was  jet  black  and  thick ;  his  hand,  as  it  gripped 
Render's,  strong  and  bony. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you.  Canon  Ronder,"  he  said. 
*Tve  heard  so  much  about  you."  His  voice,  as  Mrs.  Comber- 
mere  long  afterwards  remarked,  "has  a  twinkle  in  it."  It  was 
a  jolly  voice,  humorous,  generous  but  incisive,  and  exceed- 
ingly clear.    It  had  a  very  slight  accent,  so  slight  that  no  one 


FOUR  THE  LAST  STAISTD  416 

could  ever  decide  on  its  origin.  The  books  said  that  Wistons 
had  been  born  in  London,  and  that  his  father  had  been  Rector 
of  Lambeth  for  many  years ;  it  was  also  quickly  discovered  by 
penetrating  Polcastrians  that  he  had  a  not  very  distant  French 
ancestry.  Was  it  Cockney?  "I  expect,"  said  Miss  Stiles, 
"that  he  played  with  the  little  Lambeth  children  when  he  was 
small" — but  no  one  really  knew.  .  .  . 

The  two  men  sat  down  facing  one  another,  and  Wistons 
looked  strange  indeed  with  his  shoulders  hunched  up,  his  thin 
little  legs  like  two  cross-bones,  one  over  the  other,  his  black 
hair  and  pale  face. 

"I  feel  rather  like  a  thief  in  the  night,"  he  said,  "stealing 
down  here.  But  Foster  wanted  me  to  come,  and  I  confess 
to  a  certain  curiosity  myself." 

"You  would  like  to  come  to  Pybus  if  things  go  that  way  ?" 
Render  asked  him. 

"I  shall  be  quite  glad  to  come.  On  the  other  hand,  I  shall 
not  be  at  all  sorry  to  stay  where  I  am.  Does  it  matter  very 
much  where  one  is  ?" 

"Except  that  the  Pybus  living  is  generally  considered  a  very 
important  step  in  Church  preferment.  It  leads,  as  a  rule,  to 
great  things." 

"Great  things  ?  Yes.  ..."  Wistons  seemed  to  be  talk- 
ing to  himself.  "One  thing  is  much  like  another.  The  more 
power  one  seems  to  have  outwardly,  the  less  very  often  one  has 
in  reality.  However,  if  I'm  called  I'll  come.  But  I  wanted 
to  see  you.  Canon  Render,  for  a  special  purpose." 

"Yes  ?"  asked  Render. 

"Of  course  I  haven't  enquired  in  any  way  into  the  proba- 
bilities of  the  Pybus  appointment.  But  I  understand  that 
there  is  very  strong  opposition  to  myself;  naturally  there 
would  be.  I  also  understand  that,  with  the  exception  of  my 
friend  Foster,  you  are  my  strongest  supporter  in  this  matter. 
May  I  ask  you  why  ?" 

"Why?"  repeated  Render. 

"Yes,  why  ?    You  may  say,  and  quite  justly,  that  I  have 


416  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

no  right  at  all  to  ask  you  that  question.  It  should  be  enough 
for  me,  I  know,  to  realise  that  there  are  certain  people  here 
who  want  me  to  come.  It  ought  to  be  enough.  But  it  isn't. 
It  isnt.    I  won't — I  can't  come  here  under  false  pretences." 

"False  pretences !"  cried  Ronder.  "I  assure  you,  dear  Mr. 
Wistons " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  I  know  what  you  will  naturally  tell 
me.  But  I  have  caught  enough  of  the  talk  here — Foster  in 
his  impetuosity  has  been  perhaps  indiscreet — to  realise  that 
there  has  been,  that  there  still  is,  a  battle  here  between  the 
older,  more  conservative  body  of  opinion  and  the  more  mod- 
em school.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  made  the  figure- 
head of  this  battle.  To  that  I  have  no  objection.  It  is  not  for 
the  first  time.  But  what  I  want  to  ask  you.  Canon  Ronder, 
with  the  utmost  seriousness,  is  just  this: 

"Have  you  supported  my  appointment  because  you  honestly 
felt  that  I  was  the  best  man  for  this  particular  job,  or  because 
— I  know  you  will  forgive  me  if  this  question  sounds  imperti- 
nent— you  wished  to  score  a  point  over  some  personal  ad- 
versary ?" 

The  question  was  impertinent.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
it.  Ronder  ought  at  once  to  resent  any  imputation  on  his 
honesty.  What  right  had  this  man  to  dip  down  into  Ronder's 
motives?  The  Canon  stared  from  behind  his  glasses  into 
those  very  bright  and  insistent  eyes,  and  even  as  he  stared 
there  came  once  again  that  cold  little  wind  of  discomfort,  that 
questioning,  irritating  wind,  that  had  been  laid  so  effectively, 
he  thought,  for  ever  to  rest.  What  was  this  man  about, 
attacking  him  like  this,  attacking  him  before,  even,  he  had 
been  appointed  ?  Was  it,  after  all,  quite  wise  that  Wistons 
should  come  here?  Would  that  same  comfort,  so  rightly 
valued  by  Ronder,  be  quite  assured  in  the  future  if  Wistons 
were  at  Pybus?  Wouldn't  some  nincompoop  like  Forsyth  be 
perhaps,  after  all,  his  host  choice? 

Ronder  suddenly  ceased  to  wish  to  give  pennies  to  little 


FOUR  THE  LAST  STAND  417 

children  or  a  present  to  Brandon.  He  was,  very  justly, 
irritated. 

"Do  forgive  me  if  I  am  impertinent,"  said  Wistons  quietly, 
"but  I  have  to  know  this." 

"But  of  course,"  said  Bonder,  "I  consider  you  the  best 
man  for  this  appointment.  I  should  not  have  stirred  a  finger 
in  your  support  otherwise."  (Why,  something  murmured  to 
him,  are  people  always  attributing  to  you  unworthy  motives, 
first  your  aunt,  then  Foster,  now  this  man  ?)  "You  are  quite 
correct  in  saying  that  there  is  strong  opposition  to  your 
appointment  here.  But  that  is  quite  natural ;  you  have  only 
to  consider  some  of  your  published  works  to  understand  that. 
A  battle  is  being  fought  with  the  more  conservative  elements 
in  the  place.  You  have  heard  probably  that  the  Archdeacon 
is  their  principal  leader,  but  I  think  I  may  say  that  our  vic- 
tory is  already  assured.  There  was  never  any  real  doubt  of 
the  issue.  Archdeacon  Brandon  is  a  splendid  fellow,  and  has 
done  great  work  for  the  Church  here,  but  he  is  behind  the 
times,  out-of-date,  and  too  obstinate  to  change.  Then  certain 
family  misfortunes  have  hit  him  hard  lately,  and  his  health 
is  not,  I  fear,  what  it  was.    His  opposition  is  as  good  as  over." 

"That's  a  swift  decline,"  said  Wistons.  "I  remember  only 
some  six  months  ago  hearing  of  him  as  by  far  the  strongest 
man  in  this  place." 

"Yes,  it  has  been  swift,"  said  Bonder,  shaking  his  head 
regretfully,  "but  I  think  that  his  position  here  was  largely 
based  on  the  fact  that  there  was  no  one  else  here  strong  enough 
to  take  the  lead  against  him. 

"My  coming  into  the  diocese — some  one,  however  feeble, 
you  understand,  coming  in  from  outside — made  an  already 
strong  modern  feeling  yet  stronger." 

"I  will  tell  you  one  thing,"  said  Wistons,  suddenly  shoot- 
ing up  his  shoulders  and  darting  forward  his  head.  "I  think 
all  this  Cathedral  intrigue  disgusting.  'No,  I  don't  blame  you. 
You  came  into  the  middle  of  it,  and  were  doubtless  forced  to 
take  the  part  you  did.     But  I'll  have  no  lot  or  hold  in  it. 


418  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

If  I  am  to  understand  that  I  gain  the  Pybus  appointment  only 
through  a  lot  of  backstairs  intrigue  and  cabal,  I'll  let  it  be 
known  at  once  that  I  would  not  accept  that  living  though  it 
were  offered  me  a  thousand  times." 

"No,  no,"  c-ied  Ronder  eagerly.  "I  assure  you  that  that 
is  not  so.  There  has  been  intrigue  here  owing  to  the  old 
politics  of  the  party  who  governed  the  Cathedral.  But  that 
is,  I  hope  and  pray,  over  and  done  with.  It  is  because  so 
many  of  us  want  to  have  no  more  of  it  that  we  are  asking 
you  to  come  here.     Believe  me,  believe  me,  that  is  so." 

"I  should  not  have  said  what  I  did,"  continued  Wistons 
quietly.  "It  was  arrogant  and  conceited.  Perhaps  you  can- 
not avoid  intrigue  and  party  feeling  among  the  community  of 
any  Cathedral  body.  That  is  why  I  want  you  to  understand. 
Canon  Ronder,  the  kind  of  man  I  am,  before  you  propose  me 
for  this  post.  I  am  afraid  that  you  may  afterwards  regret 
your  advocacy.  If  I  were  invited  to  a  Canonry,  or  any  post 
immediately  connected  with  the  Cathedral,  I  would  not  accept 
it  for  an  instant.  I  come,  if  I  come  at  all,  to  fight  the 
Cathedral — that  is  to  fight  everything  in  it,  round  and  about 
it,  that  prevents  men  from  seeing  clearly  the  figure  of  Christ. 

"I  believe.  Canon  Ronder,  that  before  many  years  are  out 
it  will  become  clear  to  the  whole  world  that  there  are  now 
two  religions — the  religion  of  authority,  and  the  religion  of 
the  spirit — and  if  in  such  a  division  I  must  choose,  I  am  for 
the  religion  of  the  spirit  every  time." 

The  religion  of  the  spirit!  Ronder  stirred,  a  little  rest- 
lessly, his  fat  thighs.  What  had  that  to  do  with  it?  They 
were  discussing  the  Pybus  appointment.  The  religion  of  the 
spirit  I  Well,  who  wasn't  for  that  ?  As  to  dogma,  Ronder 
had  never  laid  very  great  stress  upon  it.  A  matter  of  words 
very  largely.  He  looked  out  to  the  garden,  where  a  tree, 
scooped  now  like  a  great  green  fan  against  the  blue-white 
eky,  was  shading  the  sun's  rays.  Ixjvely  I  lively !  Lovely 
like  the  Hermes  downstairs,  lovely  like  the  piece  of  red  amber 
on  his  writing-table,  like  the  Blind  Homer  .  .  .  like  a  seal- 


POUE  THE  LAST  STAND  419 

lop  of  green  glass  holding  water  that  washed  a  little  from  side 
to  side,  the  sheen  on  its  surface  changing  from  dark  shadow  to 
faintest  dusk.  Lovely !  He  stared,  transported,  his  comfort 
flowing  full-tide  now  into  his  soul. 

"Exactly!"  he  said,  suddenly  turning  his  eyes  full  on 
Wistons.  "The  Christian  Church  has  made  a  golden  calf  of 
its  dogmas.  The  Calf  is  worshipped,  the  Cathedral  enshrines 
it." 

Wistons  gave  a  swift  curious  stab  of  a  glance.  Eonder 
caught  it;  he  flushed.  "You  think  it  strange  of  me  to  say 
that  ?"  he  asked.  "I  can  see  that  you  do.  Let  me  be  frank 
with  you.  It  has  been  my  trouble  all  my  life  that  I  can  see 
every  side  of  a  question.  I  am  with  the  modernists,  but  at  the 
same  time  I  can  understand  how  dangerous  it  must  seem  to 
the  dogmatists  to  abandon  even  an  inch  of  the  country  that 
Paul  conquered  for  them.  I'm  afraid,  Wistons,  that  I  see 
life  in  terms  of  men  and  women  rather  than  of  creeds.  I 
want  men  to  be  happy  and  at  peace  with  one  another.  And  if 
to  form  a  new  creed  or  to  abandon  an  old  one  leads  to  men's 
deeper  religious  happiness,  well,  then  .  .  ."  He  waved  his 
hands. 

Wistons,  speaking  again  as  it  were  to  himself,  answered, 
"I  care  only  for  Jesus  Christ.  He  is  overshadowed  now  by 
all  the  great  buildings  that  men  have  raised  for  Him.  He  is 
lost  to  our  view ;  we  must  recover  Him.  Him !  Him !  Only 
Him!  To  serve  Him,  to  be  near  Him,  almost  to  feel  the 
touch  of  His  hand  on  one's  head,  that  is  the  whole  of  life  to 
me.  And  now  He  is  hard  to  come  to,  harder  every  year. 
.  .  ."     He  got  up.     "I  didn't  come  to  say  more  than  that. 

"It's  the  Cathedral,  Render,  that  I  fear.  Don't  you  your- 
self sometimes  feel  that  it  has,  by  now,  a  spirit  of  its  own,  a 
life,  a  force  that  all  the  past  years  and  all  the  worship  that  it 
has  had  have  given  it  ?  Don't  you  even  feel  that  ?  That  it 
has  become  a  god  demanding  his  own  rites  and  worshippers  ? 
That  it  uses  men  for  its  own  purposes,  and  not  for  Christ's  2 


420  THE  CATHEDRAL 

That  almost  it  hates  Christ  ?  It  is  so  beautiful,  so  lovely,  so 
haughty,  so  jealous! 

"  'For  I,  thy  Grod,  am  a  jealous  God.'  .  .  ."  He  broke  off. 
"I  could  love  Christ  better  in  that  garden  than  in  the  Cathe- 
dral. Tear  it  down  and  build  it  up  again !"  He  turned  rest- 
lessly, almost  savagely,  to  Ronder.  "Can  you  be  happy  and 
comfortable  and  at  ease,  when  you  see  what  Christ  might  be 
to  human  beings  and  what  He  is  ?  Who  thinks  of  Him,  who 
cares  for  Him,  who  loves  His  sweetness  and  charity  and 
tenderness?  Why  is  something  always  in  the  way,  always, 
always,  always  ?  Love !  Charity !  Doesn't  such  a  place  as 
this  Cathedral  breed  hatred  and  malice  and  pride  and  jeal- 
ousy ?  And  isn't  its  very  beauty  a  contempt  ?  .  .  .  And  now 
what  right  have  you  to  help  my  appointment  to  Pybus  ?" 

Ronder  smiled. 

"You  are  what  we  need  here,"  he  said.  "You  shall  shake 
some  of  our  comfort  from  us — make  a  new  life  here  for  us." 

Wistons  was  suddenly  almost  timid.  He  spoke  as  though 
he  were  waking  from  some  dream. 

"Good-bya  .  .  .  Good-bye.  No,  don't  come  down.  Thank 
you  so  much.     Thank  you.     Very  kind  of  you.     Good-bye." 

But  Ronder  insisted  on  coming  down.  They  shook  hands 
at  his  door.    The  figure  was  lost  in  the  evening  sun. 

Ronder  stood  there  for  a  moment  gazing  at  the  bright 
grass,  the  little  houses  with  their  shining  knockers,  the  purple 
shadow  of  the  Cathedral. 

Had  he  done  right?  Was  Wistons  the  man?  Might  he 
not  be  more  dangerous  than  .  .  .  ?  No,  no,  too  late  now. 
The  fight  with  Brandon  must  move  to  its  appointed  end. 
Poor  Brandon  !    Poor  dear  Brandon  I 

He  looked  across  at  the  house  as  on  the  evening  of  his  ar* 
rival  from  that  same  step  ho  had  looked. 

Poor  Brandon  I  He  would  like  to  do  something  for  him, 
some  little  kindly  unexpected  act! 

He  closed  the  door  and  softly  padded  upstairs,  humming 
happily  to  himself  that  little  chant 


A 


CHAPTER  n 

TWO  IN  THE  HOUSB 

LETTER  from  Falk  to  Joan, 


Dear  Joan — Mother  has  been  here.  I  could  get  nothing 
out  of  her.  I  had  only  one  thing  to  say — that  she  must  go  back 
to  father.  That  was  the  one  thing  that  she  asserted,  over  and 
over  again,  that  she  never  would.  Joan,  she  was  tragic.  I  felt 
that  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  never  known  her.  She  was 
thinking  of  nothing  but  Morris.  She  seemed  to  see  him  all  the 
time  that  she  was  in  the  room  with  me.  She  is  going  abroad 
with  Morris  at  the  end  of  this  week — to  South  America,  I  be- 
lieve. Mother  doesn't  seem  now  to  care  what  happens,  except 
that  she  will  not  go  back  to  father. 

She  said  an  odd  thing  to  me  at  the  end — that  she  had  had 
her  time,  her  wonderful  time,  and  that  she  could  never  be  as 
unhappy  or  as  lonely  as  she  was,  and  that  she  would  love  him 
always  (Morris,  I  suppose),  and  that  he  would  love  her. 

The  skunk  that  Morris  is !  And  yet  I  don't  know.  Haven't 
I  been  a  skunk  too?  And  yet  I  don't  feel  a  skunk.  If  only 
father  would  be  happy!  Then  things  would  be  better  than 
they've  ever  been.  You  don't  know  how  good  Annie  is,  Joan. 
How  fine  and  simple  and  true !  Why  are  we  all  such  mixtures  ? 
Why  can't  you  ever  do  what's  right  for  yourself  without  hurting 
other  people?  But  I'm  not  going  to  wait  much  longer.  If 
things  aren't  better  soon  I'm  coming  down  whether  he'll  see 
me  or  no.  We  must  make  him  happy.  We're  all  that  he  has 
now.  Once  this  Pybus  thing  is  settled  I'll  come  down.  Write 
to  me.  Tell  me  everything.  You're  a  brick,  Joan,  to  take  all 
this  as  you  do.  Why  did  we  go  all  these  years  without  knowing 
one  another  ? — Your  loving  brother, 

Falk. 
421 


422  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

A  letter  from  Joan  to  Falk. 

Deabest  Falk — I'm  answering  yon  by  return  becanse  Fm 
so  frightened.  If  I  send  you  a  telegram,  come  down  at  once. 
Mr.  Morris's  sister-in-law  is  telling  everybody  that  he  only  went 
up  to  London  on  business.  But  she's  not  going  to  stay  here,  I 
think.  But  I  can't  think  much  even  of  mother.  I  can  think 
of  no  one  but  father.  Oh,  Falk,  it's  been  terrible  these  last 
three  days,  and  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  liappen. 

I'll  try  and  tell  you  how  it's  been.  It's  two  months  now 
since  mother  went  away.  That  night  it  was  dreadful.  He 
walked  up  and  down  his  room  all  night.  Indeed  he's  been  doing 
that  ever  since  she  went.  And  yet  I  don't  think  it's  of  her  that 
he's  thinking  most.  I'm  not  sure  even  that  he's  thinking  of 
her  at  all. 

He's  concentrating  everything  now  on  the  Pybus  appoint- 
ment. He  talks  to  himself.  (You  can  see  by  that  how  changed 
he  is.)  He  is  hurrying  round  to  see  people  and  asking  them  to 
the  house,  and  he's  so  odd  with  them,  looking  at  them  suddenly, 
suspiciously,  as  though  he  expected  that  they  were  laughing  at 
him.  There's  always  something  in  the  back  of  his  mind — not 
mother,  I'm  sure.  Something  happened  to  him  that,  last  day  of 
the  Jubilee.  He's  always  talking  about  some  one  who  struck 
him,  and  he  puts  his  hand  up  to  feel  his  forehead,  where  there 
was  a  bruise.  He  told  me  that  day  that  he  had  fallen  down, 
but  I'm  sure  now  that  he  had  a  fight  with  somebody. 

He's  always  talking,  too,  about  a  "conspiracy"  against  him — 
not  only  Canon  Bonder,  but  something  more  general.  Poor 
dear,  the  worst  of  it  all  is,  how  bewildered  he  is.  You  know 
how  direct  he  used  to  be,  the  way  he  went  straight  to  his  point 
and  wasn't  afraid  of  anybody.  Now  he's  always  hesitating. 
He  hesitates  before  he  goes  out,  before  he  goes  upstairs,  before 
he  comes  into  my  room.  It's  just  as  though  he  was  for  ever 
expecting  that  there's  some  one  behind  the  door  waiting  for 
him  with  a  hammer.  It's  so  strange  how  I've  chanized  my 
feeling  about  him.  I  used  to  think  him  so  strong  that  he 
could  beat  down  anybody,  and  now  I  feel  he  wants  looking 
after  all  the  time.  Perhaps  he  never  was  really  strong  at  all, 
but  it  was  all  on  the  outside.  All  the  same  he's  very  brave  too. 
He  knows  all  the  town's  been  talking  about  him,  but  I  think 
he'd  face  a  whole  world  of  Polcliesters  if  he  could  only  boat 
Canon  Konder  over  the  Pybus  appointment.  If  Mr.  P'orsyth 
ifiu't  appointed  to  that  I  think  he'll  go  to  pieces  altogether. 


FOUB  THE  LAST  STAND  423 

You  see,  a  year  ago  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  question 
about  it  at  all.    Of  course  he  would  have  had  his  way. 

But  what  makes  me  so  frightened,  Falk,  is  of  something 
happening  in  the  house.  Father  is  so  suspicious  that  it  makes 
me  suspicious  too.  It  doesn't  seem  like  the  house  it  was  at  all, 
but  as  though  there  were  some  one  hiding  in  it,  and  at  night  it 
is  awful.  I  lie  awake  listening,  and  I  cafti  hear  father  walking 
up  and  down,  his  room's  next  to  mine,  you  know.  And  then 
if  I  listen  hard  enough,  I  can  hear  footsteps  all  over  the  house 
— ^you  know  how  you  do  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  And 
there's  always  some  one  coming  upstairs.  This  will  sound  silly 
to  you  up  in  London,  but  it  doesn't  seem  silly  here,  I  assure 
you.  All  the  servants  feel  it,  and  Gladys  is  going  at  the  end 
of  the  month. 

And  oh,  Falk!  I'm  so  sorry  for  him!  It  does  seem  so 
strange  that  everything  should  have  changed  for  him  as  it  has. 
I  feel  his  own  bewilderment.  A  year  ago  he  seemed  so  strong 
and  safe  and  secure  as  though  he  would  go  on  like  that  for  ever, 
and  hadn't  an  enemy  in  the  world.  How  could  he  have? 
He's  never  meant  harm  to  any  one.  Your  going  away  I  can 
understand,  but  mother,  I  feel  as  though  I  never  could  speak 
to  her  again.  To  be  so  cruel  to  father  and  to  write  him  such 
a  letter!  (Of  course  I  didn't  see  the  letter,  but  the  effect  of  it 
on  father  was  terrible.) 

He's  so  lonely  now.  He  scarcely  realises  me  half  the  time, 
and  you  see  he  never  did  think  very  much  about  me  before,  so 
it's  very  diiEcult  for  him  to  begin  now.  I'm  so  inexperienced. 
It's  hard  enough  running  the  house  now,  and  having  to  get 
another  servant  instead  of  Gladys — and  I  daresay  the  others 
will  go  too  now,  but  that's  nothing  to  waiting  all  the  time  for 
something  to  happen  and  watching  father  every  minute.  We 
must  make  him  happy  again,  Falk.  You're  quite  right.  It's 
the  only  thing  that  matters.  Everything  else  is  less  important 
than  that.  If  only  this  Pybus  affair  were  over !  Canon  Eonder 
is  so  powerful  now.  I'm  so  afraid  of  him.  I  do  hate  him  so ! 
The  Cathedral,  and  the  town,  everything  seems  to  have  changed 
since  he  came.  A  year  ago  they  were  like  father,  settled  for 
ever.  And  now  every  one's  talking  about  new  people  and  being 
out-of-date,  and  changing  the  Cathedral  music  and  everything! 
But  none  of  that  matters  in  comparison  with  father. 

Fve  written  a  terribly  long  letter,  but  it's  done  me  ever  so 
much  good.  I'm  sometimes  so  tempted  to  telegraph  to  you  at 
once.    I'm  almost  sure  father  would  be  glad  to  see  you.    You. 


424  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


were  always  the  one  he  loved  most.  But  perhaps  we*d  better 
wait  a  little:  if  things  get  worse  in  any  way  I'll  telegraph  at 
once, 

I'm  so  glad  you're  well,  and  happy.  You  haven't  in  your 
letters  told  nie  anything  about  the  Jubilee  in  Loudon,  Was  it 
very  fine?  Did  you  see  the  Queen?  Did  she  look  very  happy? 
Were  the  crowds  very  big?    Much  love  from  your  loving  sister, 

Joan. 


Joan,  waiting  in  the  shadowy  drawing-room  for  Johnny 
St.  Leath,  wondered  whether  her  father  had  come  in  or  no. 

It  wouldn't  matter  if  he  had,  he  wouldn't  come  into  the 
drawing-room.  He  would  go  directly  into  his  study.  She 
knew  exactly  what  he  would  do.  He  would  shut  the  door, 
then  a  minute  later  would  open  it,  look  into  the  hall  and 
listen,  then  close  it  again  very  cautiously.  He  always  now 
did  that.  And  in  any  case  if  he  did  come  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  saw  Johnny  it  wouldn't  matter.  His  mind  was 
entirely  centred  on  Pybus,  and  Johnny  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Pybus.  Johnny's  mother,  yes.  Had  that  stout  white- 
haired  cockatoo  suddenly  appeared,  she  would  be  clutched, 
absorbed,  utilised  to  her  last  white  feather.  But  she  didn't 
appear.     She  stayed  up  in  her  Castle,  serene  and  supreme. 

Joan  was  very  nervous.  She  stood,  a  little  grey  shadow  in 
the  grey  room,  her  hands  twisting  and  untwisting.  She  was 
nervous  because  she  was  going  to  say  good-bye  to  Johnny, 
perhaps  for  ever,  and  she  wasn't  sure  that  she'd  have  the 
strength  to  do  it. 

Suddenly  he  was  there  with  her  in  the  room,  big  and 
clumsy  and  cheerful,  quite  unaware  apparently  that  he  was 
never,  after  this,  to  see  Joan  again. 

He  tried  to  kiss  her  but  she  prevented  him.  "No,  you 
must  sit  over  there,"  she  said,  "and  we  must  never,  at  least 
not  probably  for  years  and  years,  kiss  one  another  again." 

He  was  aware,  as  she  spoke,  of  quite  a  new,  a  different 
Joan ;  he  bad  been  conscious  of  this  new  Joan  on  many 
occasions  during  these  last  weeks.    When  he  had  first  kno\vn 


FOUB  THE  LAST  STAND  425 

her  she  had  been  a  child  and  he  had  loved  her  for  her  childish- 
ness; now  he  must  meet  the  woman  and  the  child  together, 
and  instinctively  he  was  himself  more  serious  in  his  attitude 
to  her. 

"We  could  talk  much  better,  Joan  dear,"  he  said,  "if  we 
were  close  together." 

"No,"  she  said ;  "then  I  couldn't  talk  at  all.  We  mustn't 
meet  alone  again  after  to-day,  and  we  mustn't  write,  and  we 
mustn't  consider  ourselves  engaged." 

"Why,  please?" 

"Can't  you  see  that  it's  all  impossible  ?  We've  tried  it  now 
for  weeks  and  it  becomes  more  impossible  every  day.  Your 
mother's  absolutely  against  it  and  always  will  be — and  now 
at  home — here — ^my  mother " 

She  broke  off.  He  couldn't  leave  her  like  that ;  he  sprang 
up,  went  across  to  her,  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  kissed 
her.  She  didn't  resist  him  nor  move  from  him,  but  when  she 
spoke  again  her  voice  was  firmer  and  more  resolved  than 
before. 

"No,  Johnny,  I  mean  it,  I  can  think  of  nothing  now  but 
father.  So  long  as  he's  alive  I  must  stay  with  him.  He's 
quite  alone  now,  he  has  nobody.  I  can't  even  think  about  you 
so  long  as  he's  like  this,  so  unwell  and  so  unhappy.  It  isn't  as 
though  I  were  very  clever  or  old  or  anything.  I've  never 
until  lately  been  allowed  to  do  anything  all  my  life,  not  the 
tiniest  bit  of  housekeeping,  and  now  suddenly  it  has  all 
come.  And  if  I  were  thinking  of  you,  wanting  to  see  you, 
having  letters  from  you,  I  shouldn't  attend  to  this ;  I  shouldn't 
be  able  to  think  of  it " 

"Do  you  still  love  me  ?" 

"Why,  of  course.     I  shall  never  change." 

"And  do  you  think  that  I  still  love  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  do  you  think  I'll  change  ?" 

"You  may.    But  I  don't  want  to  think  so." 


426  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

''Well,  then,  the  main  question  is  settled-  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter how  long  we  wait." 

"But  it  does  matter.  It  may  be  for  years  and  years. 
You've  got  to  marry,  you  can't  just  stay  unmarried  because 
one  day  you  may  marry  me." 

"Can't  I  ?    You  wait  and  see  whether  I  can't." 

"But  you  oughtn't  to,  Johnny.  Think  of  your  family. 
Think  of  your  mother.    You're  the  only  son." 

"Mother  can  just  think  of  me  for  once.  It  will  be  a  bit  of 
a  change  for  her.  It  will  do  her  good.  I've  told  her  whom  I 
want  to  marry,  and  she  must  just  get  used  to  it.  She  admits 
herself  that  she  can't  have  anything  against  you  personally, 
except  that  you're  too  young.  I  asked  her  whether  she 
wanted  me  to  marry  a  Dowager  of  sixty." 

Joan  moved  away.  She  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  at  the  grey  mist  sweeping  like  an  army  of  ghostly  mes- 
sengers across  the  Cathedral  Green.  She  turned  round  to 
him. 

"No,  Johnny,  this  time  it  isn't  a  joke.  I  mean  absolutely 
what  I  say.  We're  not  to  meet  alone  or  to  write  until — father 
doesn't  need  me  any  more.  I  can't  think,  I  mustn't  think, 
of  an;y'thing  but  father  now.  Nothing  that  you  can  say,  or 
any  one  can  say,  will  make  me  change  my  mind  about  that 
now.  .  .  .  And  please  go,  Johnny,  because  it's  so  hard  while 
you're  here.  And  we  must  do  it.  I'll  never  change,  but 
you're  free  to,  and  you  ought  to.  It's  your  duty  to  find  some 
one  more  satisfactory  than  me." 

But  Johnny  appeared  not  to  have  heard  her  last  words. 
He  had  been  looking  about  him,  at  the  walls,  the  windows,  the 
ceiling — rather  as  a  young  dog  sniffs  some  place  new  to  him. 

"Joan,  tell  me.  Are  you  all  right  here?  You  oughtn't  to 
be  all  alone  here  like  this,  just  with  your  father.  Can't  you 
get  some  one  to  come  and  stay?" 

"No,"  she  answered  bravely.  "Of  course  it's  all  right 
I've  got  Gladys,  who's  been  with  us  for  years." 


FOUB  THE  LAST  STAND  427 

"There's  sometliing  funny,"  lie  said,  still  looking  about 
him.     "It  feels  queer  to  me — sort  of  unhappy." 

"i^ever  mind  that,"  she  said,  hurriedly  moving  towards 
the  door,  as  though  she  had  heard  footsteps.  "You  must  go, 
Johnny.  Kiss  me  once,  the  last  time.  And  then  no  letters, 
no  anything,  until — until — father's  happy  again." 

She  rested  in  his  arms,  suddenly  tranquil,  safe,  at  peace. 
Her  hands  were  round  his  neck.  She  kissed  his  eyes.  They 
clung  together,  suddenly  two  children,  utterly  confident  in 
one  another  and  in  their  mutual  faith. 

A  hand  was  on  the  door.  They  separated.  The  Arch- 
deacon came  in.    He  peered  into  the  dusky  room. 

"Joan !     Joan !    Are  you  there  ?" 

She  came  across  to  him.  "Yes,  father,  here  I  am.  And 
this  is  Lord  St.  Leath." 

"How  do  you  do,  sir  ?"  said  Johnny. 

"How  do  you  do  ?    I  hope  your  mother  is  well." 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  sir." 

"That's  good,  that's  good.  I  have  some  business  to  discuss 
with  her.  Rather  important  business;  I  may  come  and  see 
her  to-morrow  afternoon  if  she  is  disengaged.  Will  you 
kindly  tell  her?" 

"Indeed  I  will,  sir." 

"Thank  you.  Thank  you.  This  room  is  very  dark.  Why 
are  there  no  lights  ?  Joan,  you  should  have  lights.  There's 
no  one  else  here,  is  there  ?" 

"N"o,  father."  . 

Johnny  heard  their  voices  echoing  in  the  empty  hall  as  he 
let  himself  out. 

Brandon  shut  his  study  door  and  looked  about  him.  The 
lamp  on  his  table  was  lit,  his  study  had  a  warm  and  pleasant 
air  with  the  books  gleaming  in  their  shelves  and  the  fire 
crackling.  (You  needed  a  fire  on  these  late  summer  eve- 
nings.) N^evertheless,  although  the  room  looked  comfortable, 
he  did  not  at  once  move  into  it.    He  stood  there  beside  the 


428  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


door,  as  though  he  was  waiting  for  something.  He  listened. 
The  house  was  intensely  quiet.  He  opened  the  door  and 
looked  into  the  passage.  There  was  no  one  there.  The  gas 
hissed  ever  so  slightly,  like  a  whispering  importunate  voice. 
He  came  back  into  his  room,  closing  the  door  very  carefully 
behind  him,  went  across  softly  to  his  writing-table,  sat  down, 
and  took  up  his  pen.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door,  and 
then  suddenly  he  would  jerk  round  in  his  chair  as  though  he 
expected  to  catch  some  one  who  was  standing  just  behind  him. 

Then  began  that  fight  that  always  now  must  be  waged 
whenever  he  sat  down  at  his  desk,  the  fight  to  drive  his 
thoughts,  like  sheep,  into  the  only  pen  that  they  must  occupy. 
He  must  think  now  only  of  one  thing;  there  were  others — 
pictures,  ideas,  memories,  fears,  horrors  even — crowding, 
hovering  close  about  him,  and  afterwards — after  Pybus — he 
would  attend  to  them.  Only  one  thing  mattered  now.  "Yee, 
you  gibbering  idiots,  do  your  worst ;  knock  me  down.  Come 
on  four  to  one  like  the  cowards  that  you  are,  strike  me  in  the 
back,  take  my  wife  from  me,  and  ruin  my  house.  I  will 
attend  to  all  of  you  shortly,  but  first — Pybus." 

His  lips  were  moving  as  he  turned  over  the  papers.  Was 
there  some  one  in  the  room  with  him  ?  His  head  was  aching 
80  badly  that  it  was  difficult  to  think.  And  his  heart!  How 
strangely  that  behaved  in  these  days !  Five  heavy  slow  beats, 
then  a  little  skip  and  jump,  then  almost  as  though  it  had 
stopped  beating  altogether. 

Another  thing  that  made  it  difficult  to  work  in  that  room 
was  that  the  Cathedral  seemed  so  close.  It  was  not  close 
really,  although  you  could,  so  often,  hear  the  organ,  but  now 
Brandon  had  the  strange  fancy  that  it  had  drawn  closer 
during  these  last  weeks,  and  was  leaning  forward  with  its  ear 
to  his  house,  listening  just  as  a  man  might!  Funny  how 
Brandon  now  was  always  thinking  of  the  Cathedral  as  a  per- 
son !  Stones  and  bricks  and  mortar  and  bits  of  glass,  that's 
what  the  Cathedral  was,  and  yet  lately  it  had  seemed  to  move 
and  have  a  being  of  its  own. 


FOUB  THE  LAST  STAND  429 

Fancies!  Fancies!  Eeallj  Brandon  must  attend  to  his 
business,  this  business  of  Pybus  and  Forsyth,  which  in  a  week 
now  was  to  be  settled.  He  talked  to  himself  as  he  turned 
the  papers  over.  He  had  seen  the  Bishop,  and  Ryle  (more  or 
less  persuaded),  and  Bentinck-Major  (dark  horse,  never 
could  be  sure  of  him),  Foster,  Rogers  .  .  .  Foster?  Foster? 
Had  he  seen  Foster  ?  Why  did  the  mention  of  that  name  sud- 
denly commence  the  unveiling  for  him  of  a  scene  upon  which 
he  must  not  look?  The  crossing  the  bridge,  up  the  hill,  at 
the  turnstile,  paying  your  shilling  .  .  .  no,  no,  no  farther. 
And  Bentinck-Major !  That  man  laughed  at  him !  Positively 
he  dared,  when  a  year  ago  he  would  have  bent  down  and 
wiped  the  dust  off  his  shoes !    Positively ! 

That  man!  That  worm!  That  mean,  sycophantic  .  .  . 
He  was  beginning  to  get  angry.  He  must  not  get  angry. 
That's  what  Puddifoot  had  said,  that  had  been  the  one  thing 
that  old  Puddifoot  had  said  correctly.  He  must  not  get 
angry,  not  even  with — Render. 

At  the  mention  of  that  name  something  seemed  to  stir  in 
the  room,  some  one  to  move  closer.  Brandon's  heart  began 
to  race  round  like  a  pony  in  a  paddock.  Very  bad.  Must 
keep  quiet  Never  get  excited.  Then  for  a  moment  his 
thoughts  did  range,  roaming  over  that  now  so  familiar  ground 
of  bewilderment.     Why?     Why?     Why? 

Why  a  year  ago  that,  and  now  this'i  When  he  had  done 
no  one  in  the  world  any  harm  and  had  served  God  so  faith- 
fully?    Why?     Why?     Why? 

Back,  back  to  Pybus.  This  wasn't  work.  He  had  much  to 
do  and  no  time  to  lose.  That  enemy  of  his  was  working,  you 
could  be  sure  of  that.    Only  a  week !    Only  a  week ! 

Was  that  some  one  moving  in  the  room  ?  Was  there  some 
one  stealing  behind  him,  as  they  had  done  once,  as  ...  ?  He 
turned  sharply  round,  rising  in  his  chair.  No  one  there.  He 
got  up  and  began  stealthily  to  pace  the  floor.  The  worst  of  it 
was  that  however  carefully  you  went  you  could  never  be 
quite  sure  that  some  one  was  not  just  behind  you,  some  one 


430  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

very  clever,  measuring  his  steps  bj  yours.  You  could  never 
be  sure.  How  still  the  house  was !  He  stopped  by  his  door, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  opened  it  and  looked  out.  No  one 
there,  only  the  gas  whispering. 

What  was  he  doing,  staring  into  the  hall  ?  He  should  be 
working,  making  sure  of  his  work.  He  went  back  to  his 
table.    He  b^an  hurriedly  to  write  a  letter: 

Deab  Foster — I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I  did  not  make 
myself  quite  clear  when  I  was  speaking  to  you  yesterday  about 
Forsyth  as  the  best  incumbent  of  the  Pybus  living.  When  I  say 
best,  I  mean,  of  course,  most  suitable. 

When  he  said  best  did  he  meant  most  suitable?  Suitable 
was  not  perhaps  exactly  the  word  for  Forsyth.  It  was  some- 
thing other  than  a  question  of  mere  suitability.  It  was  a 
keeping  out  of  the  bad,  as  well  as  a  bringing  in  of  the  good. 
Suitable  was  not  the  word  that  he  wanted.  What  did  he 
want?  The  words  began  to  jump  about  on  the  paper,  and 
suddenly  out  of  the  centre  of  his  table  there  stretched  and 
extended  the  figure  of  Miss  Milton.  Yes,  there  she  was  in 
her  shabby  clothes  and  hat,  smirking.  .  .  .  He  dashed  his 
hand  at  her  and  she  vanished.  He  sprang  up.  This  was  too 
bad.  He  must  not  let  these  fancies  get  hold  of  him.  He 
went  into  the  hall. 

He  called  out  loudly,  his  voice  echoing  through  the  house, 
"Joan!    Joan  I" 

Almost  at  once  she  came.  Strange  the  relief  that  he  felt ! 
But  he  wouldn't  show  it.  She  must  notice  nothing  at  all  out 
of  the  ordinary. 

She  sat  close  to  him  at  their  evening  meal  and  talked  to 
him  about  everything  that  came  into  her  young  head.  Some- 
times he  wished  that  she  wouldn't  talk  so  much ;  she  hadn't 
talked  so  much  in  earlier  days,  had  she?  But  he  couldn't 
remember  what  she  had  done  in  earlier  days. 

He  waa  very  particular  now  about  his  food.     Always  he 


POUB  THE  LAST  STAND  431 

had  eaten  whatever  was  put  in  front  of  him  with  hearty  and 
eager  appreciation;  now  he  seemed  to  have  very  little  appe- 
tite. He  was  always  complaining  about  the  cooking.  The 
potatoes  were  hard,  the  beef  was  underdone,  the  pastry  was 
heavy.  And  sometimes  he  would  forget  altogether  that  he 
was  eating,  and  would  sit  staring  in  front  of  him,  his  food 
neglected  on  his  plate. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Joan.  IsTot  easy  to  choose  topics  that 
were  not  dangerous.  And  so  often  he  was  not  listening  to 
her  at  all.  Perhaps  at  no  other  time  did  she  pity  him  so 
much,  and  love  him  so  much,  as  when  she  saw  him  staring 
in  front  of  him,  his  eyes  puzzled,  bewildered,  piteous,  like 
those  of  an  animal  caught  in  a  trap.  All  her  old  fear  of  him 
was  gone,  but  a  new  fear  had  come  in  its  place.  Sometimes, 
in  quite  the  old  way,  he  would  rap  out  suddenly,  "Nonsense — 
stuff  and  nonsense  I  ...  As  though  he  knew  anything  about 
it!"  or  would  once  again  take  the  whole  place,  town  and 
Cathedral  and  all  of  them,  into  his  charge  with  something 
like,  "I  knew  how  to  manage  the  thing.     What  they  would 

have  done  without "     But  these  defiances  never  lasted. 

They  would  fade  away  into  bewilderment  and  silence. 

He  would  complain  continually  of  his  head,  putting  his 
hand  suddenly  up  to  it,  and  saying,  like  a  little  child : 

"My  head's  so  bad.  Such  a  headache !"  But  he  would  re- 
fuse to  see  Puddifoot;  had  seen  him  once,  and  had  immedi- 
ately quarrelled  with  him,  and  told  him  that  he  was  a  silly  old 
fool  and  knew  nothing  about  anything,  and  this  when  Puddi- 
foot had  come  with  the  noblest  motives,  intending  to  patronise 
and  condole. 

After  dinner  to-night  Joan  and  he  went  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Often,  after  dinner,  he  vanished  into  the  study  "to 
work" — but  to-night  he  was  "tired,  very  tired — my  dear.  So 
much  effort  in  connection  with  this  Pybus  business.  What's 
come  to  the  town  I  don't  know.  A  year  ago  the  matter  would 
have  been  simple  enough  .  .  .  anything  so  obvious.  .  .  ." 

He  sat  in  his  old  arm-chair,  whence  for  so  many  years  he 


432  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

had  delivered  his  decisive  judgments.  No  decisive  judgments 
to-night  1  He  was  really  tired,  lying  back,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
hands  twitching  ever  so  slightly  on  his  knees. 

Joan  sat  near  to  him,  struggling  to  overcome  her  fear.  She 
felt  that  if  only  she  could  grasp  that  fear,  like  a  nettle,  and 
hold  it  tightly  in  her  hand  it  would  seem  so  slight  and  unim- 
portant But  she  could  not  grasp  it.  It  was  compounded  of 
BO  many  things,  of  the  silence  and  the  dulness,  of  the  Pre- 
cincts and  the  Cathedral,  of  whispering  trees  and  steps  on  the 
stairs,  of  her  father  and  something  strange  that  now  inhabited 
him  like  a  new  guest  in  their  house,  of  her  loneliness  and  of 
her  longing  for  some  friend  with  whom  she  could  talk,  of  her 
ache  for  Johnny  and  his  comforting,  loving  smile,  but  most 
of  all,  strangely,  of  her  own  love  for  her  father,  and  her 
desire,  her  poignant  desire,  that  he  should  be  happy  again. 
She  scarcely  missed  her  mother,  she  did  not  want  her  to  come 
back ;  but  she  ached  and  ached  to  see  once  again  that  happy 
flush  return  to  her  father's  cheek,  that  determined  ring  to  hi* 
voice,  that  buoyant  confident  movement  to  his  walk. 

To-night  she  could  not  be  sure  whether  he  slept  or  no.  She 
watched  him,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  to  hold  its  breath- 
Suddenly  an  absurd  fancy  seized  her.  She  fought  against  it 
for  a  time,  sitting  there,  her  hands  tightly  clenched.  Then 
suddenly  it  overcame  her.  Some  one  was  listening  outside 
the  window ;  she  fancied  that  she  could  see  him — tall,  dark, 
lean,  his  face  pressed  against  the  pane. 

She  rose  very  softly  and  stole  across  the  floor,  very  gently 
drew  back  one  of  the  curtains  and  looked  out.  It  was  dark 
and  she  could  see  notliing — only  the  Cathedral  like  a  grej 
web  against  a  sky  black  as  ink.  A  lamp,  across  the  Green, 
threw  a  splash  of  orange  in  the  middle  distance — no  other 
light     The  Cathedral  seemed  to  be  very  close  to  the  house. 

She  closed  the  curtain  and  then  heard  her  father  call  her. 

"Joan !    Joan  1    Where  are  you  ?" 

She  came  back  and  stood  by  his  chair.  "I  was  only  looking 
out  to  SCO  what  sort  of  a  night  it  was,  father  dear/'  she  said. 


FOUE  THE  LAST  STAJSTD  433 

He  suddenly  smiled.  "I  had  a  pleasant  little  nap  then," 
he  said;  "my  head's  better.  There.  Sit  down  close  to  me. 
Bring  your  chair  nearer.  We're  all  alone  here  now,  you  and 
I.    We  must  make  a  lot  of  one  another." 

He  had  paid  so  little  attention  to  her  hitherto  that  she 
suddenly  realised  now  that  her  loneliness  had,  during  these 
last  weeks,  been  the  hardest  thing  of  all  to  bear.  She  drew 
her  chair  close  to  his  and  he  took  her  hand. 

"Yes,  yes,  it's  quite  true.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  without  you  during  these  last  weeks.  You've  been 
very  good  to  your  poor,  stupid,  old  father !" 

She  murmured  something,  and  he  burst  out,  "Oh,  yes, 
they  do!  That's  what  they  say!  I  know  how  they  talk. 
They  want  to  get  me  out  of  the  way  and  change  the  place — 
put  in  unbelievers  and  atheists.  But  they  shan't — not  while 
I  have  any  breath  in  my  body — "  He  went  on  more  gently, 
"Why  just  think,  my  dear,  they  actually  want  to  have  that 
man  Wistons  here.  An  atheist!  A  denier  of  Christ's  di- 
vinity !  Here  worshipping  in  the  Cathedral !  And  when  I 
try  to  stop  it  they  say  I'm  mad.  Oh,  yes !  They  do !  I've 
heard  them.  Mad.  Out-of-date.  They've  laughed  at  me — 
ever  since — ever  since  .  .  .  that  elephant,  you  know,  dear 
,  .  .  that  began  it  .  .  .  the  Circus.  .  .  ." 

She  leaned  over  him. 

"Father  dear,  you  mustn't  pay  so  much  attention  to  what 
they  say.  You  imagine  so  much  just  because  you  aren't  very 
well  and  have  those  headaches — and — and — because  of  other 
things.  You  imagine  things  that  aren't  true.  So  many 
people  here  love  you " 

"Love  me !"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  starting  up  in  his  chair. 
"When  they  set  upon  me,  five  of  them,  from  behind  and  beat 
me !  There  in  public  with  the  lights  and  the  singing."  He 
caught  her  hand,  gripping  it.  "There's  a  conspiracy,  Joan. 
I  know  it.  I've  seen  it  a  long  time.  And  I  know  who 
started  it  and  who  paid  them  to  follow  me.  Everywhere  I 
go,  there  they  are,  following  me. 


434  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"That  old  woman  with  her  silly  hat,  she  followed  me  into 
my  own  house.  Yes,  she  did !  'I'll  read  you  a  letter,'  she 
said.  *I  hate  you,  and  I'll  make  you  cry  out  over  this.' 
They're  all  in  it.    He's  setting  them  on.    But  he  shan't  have 

his  way.     I'll  fight  him  yet.     Even  my  own  son "     His 

voice  broke. 

Joan  knelt  at  his  feet,  looking  up  into  his  faca  "Father ! 
Falk  wants  to  come  and  see  you !  I've  had  a  letter  from 
him.  He  wants  to  come  and  ask  your  forgiveness — he  loves 
you  so  much." 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  almost  pushing  her  away  from 
him.  "Falk !  Falk !  I  don't  know  any  one  called  that.  I 
haven't  got  a  son " 

He  turned,  looking  at  her.  Then  suddenly  put  his  arms 
around  her  and  kissed  her,  holding  her  tight  to  his  breast. 

"You're  a  good  girl,"  he  said.  "Dear  Joan !  I'm  glad 
you've  not  left  me  too.  I  love  you,  Joan,  and  I've  not  been 
good  enough  to  you.  Oh,  no,  I  haven't  I  Many  things  I 
might  have  done,  and  now  it's  too  late  .  .  .  too  late  .  .  ." 

Ho  kissed  her  again  and  again,  stroking  her  hair,  then  he 
said  that  he  was  tired,  very  tired — he'd  sleep  to-night.  He 
went  slowly  upstairs. 

He  undressed  rapidly,  flinging  off  his  clothes  as  though 
they  hurt  him.  As  though  some  one  else  had  unexpectedly 
come  into  the  room,  he  saw  himself  standing  before  the  long 
glass  in  the  dressing-room,  naked  save  for  his  vest.  He  looked 
at  himself  and  laughed. 

How  funny  he  looked  only  in  his  vest — how  funny  were  ho 
to  walk  down  the  High  Street  like  that!  They  would  say  ho 
was  mad.  And  yet  he  wouldn't  be  mad.  He  would  be  just  as 
he  was  now.  He  pulled  the  vest  off  over  his  head  and  contin- 
ued to  stare  at  himself.  It  was  as  though  he  were  looking 
at  some  one  else's  body.  The  long  toes,  the  strong  legs,  the 
thick  thighs,  the  broad  hairless  chest,  the  stout  red  neck — 
and  then  those  eyes,  surely  not  his,  those  strange  ironical 


FOUB  THE  LAST  STA:NrD  435 

eyes!  He  passed  his  hand  down  his  side  and  felt  the  cool 
strong  marble  of  his  flesh.  Then  suddenly  he  was  cold  and 
he  hurried  into  his  night-shirt  and  his  dressing-gown. 

He  sat  on  his  bed.  Something  deep  down  in  him  was 
struggling  to  come  up.  Some  thought  .  .  .  some  feeling 
.  .  .  some  name.  Falk !  It  was  as  though  a  bell  were  ring- 
ing, at  a  great  distance,  in  the  sleeping  town — but  ringing 
only  for  him.  Falk!  The  pain,  the  urgent  pain,  crept 
closer.  Falk!  He  got  up  from  his  bed,  opened  his  door, 
looked  out  into  the  dark  and  silent  house,  stepped  forward, 
carefully,  softly,  his  old  red  dressing-gown  close  about  him, 
stumbling  a  little  on  the  stairs,  feeling  the  way  to  his  study 
door. 

He  sat  in  his  arm-chair  huddled  up.  "Falk !  Falk !  Oh, 
my  boy,  my  boy,  come  back,  come  back !  I  want  you,  I  want 
to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to  touch  you,  to  hear  your  voice ! 
I  want  to  love  you ! 

"Love — Love!  I  never  wanted  love  before,  but  now  I 
want  it,  desperately,  desperately,  some  one  to  love  me,  some 
one  for  me  to  love,  some  one  to  be  kind  to.  Falk,  my  boy. 
I'm  so  lonely.  It's  so  dark.  I  can't  see  things  as  I  did.  It's 
getting  darker. 

"Falk,  come  back  and  help  me.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER m 


PRKLUDB   TO   BATTLE 


THAT  night  he  slept  well  and  soundly,  and  in  the  morning 
woke  tranquil  and  refreshed.  His  life  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  taken  a  new  turn.  As  he  lay  there  and  watched  the 
sunlight  run  through  the  lattices  like  strands  of  pale-coloured 
silk,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  through  the  worst.  He  did 
what  he  had  not  done  for  many  days,  allowed  the  tliought  of 
his  wife  to  come  and  dwell  with  him. 

He  went  over  many  of  their  past  years  together,  and,  nod- 
ding his  head,  decided  that  he  had  been  often  to  blame.  Then 
the  further  thought  of  what  she  had  done,  of  her  adultery,  of 
her  last  letter,  these  like  foul  black  water  came  sweeping  up 
and  darkened  his  mind.  .  .  .  No  more.  No  more.  He  must 
do  as  he  had  done.  Think  only  of  Pybus.  Fight  that,  win 
his  victory,  and  then  turn  to  what  lay  behind.  But  the  sun- 
light no  longer  danced  for  him,  he  closed  his  e^-cs,  turned  on 
his  side,  and  prayed  to  God  out  of  his  bewilderment. 

After  breakfast  he  started  out.  A  restless  urgency  drove 
him  forth.  The  Chapter  Meeting  at  which  the  new  incum- 
bent of  Pybus  was  to  be  chosen  was  now  only  three  days 
distant,  and  all  the  work  in  connection  with  that  was  com- 
pleted— but  Brandon  could  not  be  still.  Some  members  of 
the  Chapter  he  had  seen  over  and  over  again  during  the  last 
months,  and  had  pressed  Rex  Forsyth's  claims  upon  them 
without  ceasing,  but  this  thing  had  become  a  symbol  to  him 
now — a  symbol  of  his  fight  with  Render,  of  his  battle  for  the 
Cathedral,  of  his  championship,  behind  that,  of  the  whole 
cause  of  Christ's  Church. 

438 


THE  LAST  STAITD  437 

It  seemed  to  him  that  if  he  were  defeated  now  in  this  thing 
it  would  mean  that  God  Himself  had  deserted  him.  At  the 
mere  thought  of  defeat  his  heart  began  to  leap  in  his  breast 
and  the  flags  of  the  pavement  to  run  before  his  eyes.  But  it 
could  not  be.  He  had  been  tested ;  like  Job,  every  plague  had 
been  given  to  him  to  prove  him  true,  but  this  last  would  shout 
to  the  world  that  his  power  was  gone  and  that  the  Cathedral 
that  he  loved  had  no  longer  a  place  for  him.  And  then — and 
then 

He  would  not,  he  must  not,  look.  At  the  top  of  the  High 
Street  he  met  Ryle  the  Precentor.  There  had  been  a  time 
when  Ryle  was  terrified  by  the  Archdeacon ;  that  time  was 
not  far  distant,  but  it  was  gone.  Nevertheless,  even  though 
the  Archdeacon  were  suddenly  old  and  sick  and  unimportant, 
you  never  could  tell  but  that  he  might  say  something  to  some- 
body that  it  would  be  unpleasant  to  have  said.  "Politeness 
all  the  way  round"  was  Ryle's  motto,  and  a  very  safe  one  too. 
Moreover,  Ryle,  when  he  could  rise  above  his  alarm  for  the 
safety  of  his  own  position,  was  a  kindly  man,  and  it  really 
was  sad  to  see  the  poor  Archdeacon  so  pale  and  tired,  the 
scratch  on  his  cheek,  even  now  not  healed,  giving  him  a 
strangely  battered  appearance. 

And  how  would  Ryle  have  liked  Mrs.  Ryle  to  leave  him  ? 
And  how  would  he  feel  if  his  son,  Anthony  (aged  at  present 
five),  ran  away  with  the  daughter  of  a  publican?  And  how, 
above  all,  would  he  feel  did  he  know  that  the  whole  town  was 
talking  about  him  and  saying  "Poor  Precentor !"  ?  But  per- 
haps the  Archdeacon  did  not  know.  Strange  the  things  that 
people  did  not  know  about  themselves ! — and  at  that  thought 
the  Precentor  went  goose-fleshy  all  over,  because  of  the 
things  that  at  that  very  moment  people  might  be  saying  about 
him  and  he  knowing  none  of  them ! 

All  this  passed  very  swiftly  through  Ryle's  mind,  and  waa 
quickly  strangled  by  hearing  Brandon  utter  in  quite  his  old 
knock-you-down-if-you-don't-get-out-of-my-way    voice,    "Ha  I 


438  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Ryle  I  Out  early  this  raoming !  I  hope  you're  not  planning 
any  more  new-fangled  musical  schemes  for  us!" 

Oh,  well  I  if  the  Archdeacon  were  going  to  take  that  sort 
of  tone  with  him,  Ryle  simply  wasn't  going  to  stand  it !  Why 
should  he?    To-day  isn't  six  months  ago. 

"That's  all  right,  Archdeacon,"  he  said  stiffly.  "Render 
and  I  go  through  a  good  deal  of  the  music  together  now.  He's 
very  musical,  you  know.  Every  one  seems  quite  satisfied." 
That  ought  to  get  him — my  mention  of  Render's  nama  .  .  . 
At  the  same  time  Ryle  didn't  wish  to  seem  to  have  gone  over 
to  the  other  camp  altogether,  and  he  was  just  about  to  say 
something  gently  deprecatory  of  Render  when,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, he  perceived  that  Brandon  simply  hadn't  heard  him 
at  all !  And  then  the  Archdeacon  took  his  arm  and  marched 
with  him  down  the  High  Street. 

"With  regard  to  this  Pybus  business.  Precentor,"  he  was 
saying,  "the  matter  now  will  be  settled  in  another  three  days. 
I  hope  every  one  realises  the  extreme  seriousness  of  this 
audacious  plot  to  push  a  heretic  like  this  man  Wistons  into 
the  place.  I'm  sure  that  every  one  does  realise  it.  There  can 
be  no  two  opinions  about  it,  of  course.  At  the  same 
time " 

How  very  uncomfortable!  There  had  been  a  time  when 
the  Precentor  would  have  been  proud  indeed  to  walk  down 
the  High  Street  arm-in-arm  with  the  Archdeacon.  But  that 
time  was  past.  The  High  Street  was  crowded.  Any  one 
might  see  them.  They  would  take  it  for  granted  that  the  Pre- 
centor was  of  the  Archdeacon's  party.  And  to  bo  seen  thus 
affectionately  linked  with  the  Archdeacon  just  now,  when  his 
family  affairs  were  in  so  strange  a  disorder,  when  he  himself 
was  behaving  so  oddly,  when,  as  it  was  whispered,  at  the  Jubi- 
lee Fair  he  had  engaged  in  a  scuffle  of  a  most  disreputable 
kind.     The  word  "Drink"  was  mentioned. 

Ryle  tried,  every  so  gently,  to  disengage  his  arm.  Bran- 
don's hand  was  of  steel. 


POUB  THE  LAST  STAND  439 

"This  seems  to  me,"  the  Archdeacon  was  continuing,  "a 
most  critical  moment  in  our  Cathedral's  history.  If  we  don't 
stand  together  now  we — we " 

The  Archdeacon's  hand  relaxed.  His  eyes  wandered. 
Kyle  detached  his  arm.  How  strange  the  man  was !  Why, 
there  was  Samuel  Hogg  on  the  other  side  of  the  street! 

He  had  taken  his  hat  off  and  was  smiling.  How  uncom- 
fortable! How  unpleasant  to  be  mixed  in  this  kind  of  en- 
counter !    How  Mrs.  Ryle-  would  dislike  it  if  she  knew ! 

But  his  mind  was  speedily  taken  off  his  own  affairs.  He 
was  conscious  of  the  Archdeacon,  standing  at  his  full  height, 
his  eyes,  as  he  afterwards  described  it  a  thousand  times, 
"bursting  from  his  head."  Then,  "before  you  could  count 
two,"  the  Archdeacon  was  striding  across  the  street. 

It  was  a  sunny  morning,  people  going  about  their  ordinary 
business,  every  one  smiling  and  happy.  Suddenly  Ryle  saw 
the  Archdeacon  stop  in  front  of  Hogg ;  himself  started  across 
the  street,  urged  he  knew  not  by  what  impulse,  saw  Hogg's 
ugly  sneering  face,  saw  the  Archdeacon's  arm  shoot  out, 
catch  Hogg  one,  two  terrific  blows  in  the  face,  saw  Hogg 
topple  over  like  a  heap  of  clothes  falling  from  their  peg,  was 
in  time  to  hear  the  Archdeacon  crying  out,  "You  dirty  spy  1 
You'd  set  upon  me  from  behind,  would  you  ?  Afraid  to  meet 
me  face  to  face,  are  you  ?  Take  that,  then,  and  that !"  And 
then  shout,  "It's  daylight  I  It's  daylight  now  I  Stand  up  and 
face  me,  you  coward !" 

The  next  thing  of  which  the  terrified  Ryle  was  conscious 
was  that  people  were  running  up  from  all  sides.  They  seemed 
to  spring  from  nowhere.  He  saw,  too,  how  Hogg,  the  blood 
streaming  from  his  face,  lay  there  on  his  back,  not  attempting 
to  move.  Some  were  bending  down  behind  him,  holding  his 
head,  others  had  their  hands  about  Brandon,  holding  him 
back.  Errand-boys  were  running,  people  were  hurrying  from 
the  shops,  voices  raised  on  every  side — a  Constable  slowly 
crossed  the  street — Ryle  slipped  away 


440  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Joan  had  gone  out  at  once  after  breakfast  that  morning  to 
the  little  shop,  Miss  Milligan's,  in  the  little  street  behind  the 
Precincts,  to  see  whether  she  could  not  get  some  of  that  really 
fresh  fruit  that  only  Miss  Milligan  seemed  able  to  ob- 
tain. She  was  for  some  little  time  in  the  shop,  because  Mis3 
Milligan  always  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  her  little 
nephew  Benjie,  who  was  at  the  School  as  a  day-boy  and  was 
likely  to  get  a  scholarship,  and  was  just  now  suffering  from 
boils.  Joan  was  a  good  listener  and  a  patient,  so  that  it  was 
quite  late — after  ten  o'clock — as  she  hurried  back. 

Just  by  the  Arden  Gate  Ellen  Stiles  met  her. 

"Oh,  you  poor  child!"  she  cried;  "aren't  you  at  home?  I 
was  just  hurrying  up  to  see  whether  I  could  be  of  any  sort  of 
help  to  you !" 

"Any  help  ?"  echoed  Joan,  seeing  at  once,  in  the  nodding 
blue  plume  in  Ellen's  hat,  forebodings  of  horrible  disaster. 

"What,  haven't  you  heard  ?"  cried  Ellen,  pitying  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  the  child's  white  face  and  terrified  eyes. 

"No !  What  ?  Oh,  tell  me  quickly  I  What  has  happened  ? 
To  father " 

"I  don't  know  exactly  myself,"  said  Ellen.  "That's  what 
I  was  hurrying  up  to  find  out.  .  .  .  Your  father  .  .  .  he's 
had  some  sort  of  fight  with  that  horrible  man  Hogg  in  the 
High  Street.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  But  wait  a 
minute.  .  .  ." 

Joan  was  gone,  scurrying  through  the  Precincts,  the  paper 
bag  with  the  fruit  clutched  tightly  to  her. 

Ellen  Stiles  stared  after  her ;  her  eyes  were  dim  with  kind- 
ness. There  was  nothing  now  that  she  would  not  do  for  that 
girl  and  her  poor  father !  Knocked  down  to  tlie  ground  they 
were,  and  Ellen  championed  them  wherever  she  went.  And 
now  this  1  Drink  or  madness — perhaps  botli  I  Poor  man  1 
Poor  man !  And  that  child,  scarcely  out  of  the  cradle,  with 
all  this  on  her  shoulders !  Ellen  would  do  anything  for  them  1 
She  would  go  round  later  in  the  day  and  see  how  she  oould 
be  useful 


FouE  THE  LAST  STAND  441 

She  turned  away.  It  was  Ronder  now  who  was  'Sip"  .  .  . 
and  a  little  puUing-down  would  do  him  no  sort  of  harm. 
There  were  a  few  little  things  she  was  longing,  herself,  to  tell 
him.  A  few  home-truths.  Then,  half-way  down  the  High 
Street,  she  met  Julia  Preston,  and  didn't  they  have  a  lot  to 
say  about  it  all ! 

Meanwhile  Joan,  in  another  moment,  was  at  her  door. 
What  had  happened  ?  Oh,  what  had  happened  ?  Had  he 
been  brought  back  dying  and  bleeding?  Had  that  horrible 
man  set  upon  him,  there  in  the  High  Street,  while  every  one 
was  about?  Was  the  doctor  there,  Mr.  Puddifoot?  Would 
there  perhaps  have  to  be  an  operation  ?  This  would  kill  her 
father.  The  disgrace.  .  .  .  She  let  herself  in  with  her  latch- 
key and  stood  in  the  familiar  hall.  Everything  was  just  as  it 
had  always  been,  the  clocks  ticking.  She  could  hear  the 
Cathedral  organ  faintly  through  the  wall.  The  drawing- 
room  windows  were  open,  and  she  could  hear  the  birds,  sing- 
ing at  the  sun,  out  there  in  the  Precincts.  Everything  as  it 
always  was.  She  could  not  understand.  Gladys  appeared 
from  the  kitchen. 

"Oh,  Gladys,  here  is  the  fruit.  .  .  .  Has  father  come  in  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  miss." 

"You  haven't  heard  him?" 

"No,  miss.    I've  been  upstairs,  'elping  with  the  beds." 

"Oh— thank  you,  Gladys." 

The  terror  slipped  away  from  her.  Then  it  was  all  right. 
Ellen  Stiles  had,  as  usual,  exaggerated.  After  all,  she  had  not 
been  there.  She  had  heard  it  only  at  second-hand.  She  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  then  went  to  the  study  door.  Outside  she 
hesitated  again,  then  she  went  in. 

To  her  amazement  her  father  was  sitting,  just  as  he  had 
always  sat,  at  his  table.  He  looked  up  when  she  entered, 
there  was  no  sign  upon  him  of  any  trouble.  His  face  was 
very  white,  stone-white,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  for  months 
past  the  colour  had  been  draining  from  it,  and  now  at  last  all 
colour  was  gona    A  man  wearing  a  mask.     She  could  fancy 


442  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

that  he  would  put  up  his  hands  and  suddenly  slip  it  from 
him  and  lay  it  douTi  upon  the  tabla  The  eyes  stared 
through  it,  alive,  coloured,  restless. 

"Well,  Joan,  what  is  it  ?" 

She  stammered,  "Nothing,  father.  I  only  wanted  to  see — 
whether — that " 

"Yes  ?    Is  any  one  wanting  to  see  me  ?" 

"No — only  some  one  told  me  that  you  ...  I 
thought " 

"You  heard  that  I  chastised  a  ruiSan  in  the  town?  You 
heard  correctly.    I  did.    He  deserved  what  I  gave  him." 

A  little  shiver  shook  her. 

"Is  that  all  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"Isn't  there  anything,  father,  I  can  do  ?" 

"Nothing — except  leave  me  just  now.  I'm  very  busy. 
I  have  letters  to  write." 

She  went  out.  She  stood  in  the  hall,  her  hands  clasped 
together.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  The  worst  that  she  had  ever 
feared  had  occurred.     He  was  mad. 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  sun  was  blaz- 
ing as  though  it  would  set  the  carpet  on  fire.  What  was  she 
to  do  ?  What  ought  she  to  do  ?  Should  she  fetch  Puddifoot 
or  some  older  woman  like  Mrs.  Combermere,  who  would  be 
able  to  advise  her?  Oh,  no.  She  wanted  no  one  there  wlio 
would  pity  him.  She  felt  a  longing,  urgent  desire  to  keep 
him  always  with  her  now,  away  from  the  world,  in  some 
corner  where  she  could  cherish  and  love  him  and  allow  no  one 
to  insult  and  hurt  him.  But  madness !  To  her  girlish  inex- 
perience this  morning's  acts  could  be  nothing  but  madness. 
There  in  the  middle  of  the  High  Street,  with  every  one  about, 
to  do  such  a  thing!  The  disgrace  of  it  I  Wliy,  now,  they 
could  never  stay  in  Polchester.  ,  .  .  This  was  worse  than 
everything  that  had  gone  before.  How  they  would  all  talk. 
Canon  Render  and  all  of  them,  and  how  pleased  they  would 
bel 

At  that  she  clenched  her  hands  and  drew  herself  up  aa 


FOUB  THE  LAST  STAITD  443 

though  she  were  defying  the  whole  of  Polcheeter.  They 
should  not  laugh  at  him,  they  should  not  dare !  .  .  . 

But  meanwhile  what  immediately  was  she  to  do?  It 
wasn't  safe  to  leave  him  alone.  Now  that  he  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  knock  some  one  down  in  the  principal  street,  what  might 
he  not  do  ?  What  would  happen  if  he  met  Canon  Render  ? 
Oh!  why  had  this  come?  What  had  they  done  to  deserve 
this? 

What  had  he  done  when  he  had  always  been  so  good  ? 

She  seemed  for  a  little  distracted.  She  could  not  think. 
Her  thoughts  would  not  come  clearly.  She  waited,  staring 
into  the  sun  and  the  colour.  Quietness  came  to  her.  Her  life 
was  now  his.  Nothing  counted  in  her  life  but  that.  If  they 
must  leave  Polchester  she  would  go  with  him  whenever  he 
must  go,  and  care  for  him.  Johnny!  For  one  terrible  in- 
stant he  seemed  to  stand,  a  figure  of  flame,  outside  there  on 
the  sun-drenched  grass. 

Outside!  Yes,  always  outside,  until  her  father  did  not 
need  her  any  more.  Then,  suddenly  she  wanted  Johnny  so 
badly  that  she  crumpled  up  into  one  of  the  old  arm-chairs  and 
cried  and  cried  and  cried.  She  was  very  young.  Life  ahead 
of  her  seemed  very  long.  Yes,  she  cried  her  heart  out,  and 
then  she  went  upstairs  and  washed  her  face  and  wrote  to 
Falk.  She  would  not  telegraph  until  she  was  quite  sure  that 
she  could  not  manage  it  by  herself. 

The  wonderful  morning  changed  to  a  storm  of  wind  and 
rain.  Such  a  storm!  Down  in  the  basement  Cook  could 
scarcely  hear  herself  speak !  As  she  said  to  Gladys,  it  was 
what  you  must  expect  now.  They  were  slipping  into  Autumn, 
and  before  you  knew,  why,  there  would  be  Winter !  Nothing 
odder  than  the  sudden  way  the  Seasons  took  you !  But  Cook 
didn't  like  storms  in  that  house.  "Them  Precincts  'ouses, 
they're  that  old,  they'd  fall  on  top  of  you  as  soon  as  whistle 
Trefusis !  For  her  part  she'd  always  thought  this  'ouse  queer, 
and  it  wasn't  any  the  less  queer  since  all  these  things  had  been 


444  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

going  on  in  it."  It  was  at  this  point  that  the  grocery  'Tx)y" 
arrived  and  supposed  they'd  'card  all  about  it  by  that  time. 
All  about  what?  Why,  the  Archdeacon  knocking  Samuel 
'Ogg  down  in  the  'Igh  Street  that  very  moniing!  Then, 
indeed,  you  could  have  knocked  Cook  down,  as  she  said,  with 
a  whisper.  Collapsed  her  so,  that  she  had  to  sit  down  and 
take  a  cup  of  tea,  the  kettle  being  luckily  on  the  boil.  Gladys 
had  to  sit  down  and  take  one  too,  and  tliere  they  sat,  the 
grocer's  boy  dismissed,  in  the  darkening  kitchen,  their  heads 
close  together,  and  starting  at  every  hiss  of  the  rain  upon  the 
coals.  The  house  hung  heavy  and  dark  above  them.  Mad, 
that's  what  he  must  be,  and  going  mad  these  past  ever  so  many 
months.  And  such  a  fine  man  too !  But  knocking  people 
down  in  the  street,  and  'im  such  a  man  for  his  own  dignity ! 
I'm  an  Archdeacon  too.  'Ad  an}'  one  ever  heard  in  their  lives 
of  an  Archdeacon  doing  such  a  thing?  Well,  that  settled 
Cook.  She'd  been  in  the  house  ten  solid  years,  but  at  the 
end  of  the  month  she'd  be  off.  To  sit  in  the  house  with  a 
madman !  Not  she !  Adultery  and  all  the  talk  had  been 
enough,  but  she  had  risked  her  good  name  and  all,  just  for 
the  sake  of  that  poor  young  thing  upstairs,  but  madness! — 
no,  that  was  another  pair  of  shoes. 

Now  Gladys  was  peculiar.  She'd  given  her  notice,  but 
hearing  this,  she  suddenly  determined  to  stay.  That  poor 
Miss  Joan !  Poor  little  worm !  So  young  and  innocent — 
shut  up  all  alone  with  her  mad  father.  Gladys  would  see 
her  through 

"Why,  Gladys,"  cried  Cook,  "what  will  your  young  feller 
you're  walkin'  with  say  ?" 

"If  'e  don't  like  it  'e  can  lump  it,"  said  Gladys.  "Lord, 
'ow  this  house  does  rattle!" 

All  the  afternoon  of  that  day  Brandon  sat,  never  moving 
from  his  study-table.  He  sat  exultant.  Some  of  the  shann; 
had  been  wiped  away.  He  could  feel  again  the  riotous  hap- 
piness that  had  surged  up  in  him  as  he  struck  that  face,  felt 
it  yield  before  him,  saw  it  fade  away  into  dust  and  nothing- 


FOTjs  THE  LAST  STAITD  445 

ness.  That  face  that  had  for  all  these  months  been  haunting 
him,  at  last  he  had  banished  it,  and  with  it  had  gone  those 
other  leering  faces  that  had  for  so  long  kept  him  company. 
His  room  was  dark,  and  it  was  always  in  the  dark  that  they 
came  to  him — Hogg's,  the  drunken  painter's,  that  old 
woman's  in  the  dirty  dress. 

And  to-day  they  did  not  come.  If  they  came  he  would 
treat  them  as  he  had  treated  Hogg.  That  was  the  way  to 
deal  with  them ! 

His  heart  was  bad,  fluttering,  stampeding,  pounding  and 
then  dying  away.  He  walked  about  the  room  that  he  might 
think  less  of  it.  Never  mind  his  heart !  Destroy  his  ene- 
mies, that's  what  he  had  to  do — these  men  and  women  who 
were  the  enemies  of  himself,  his  town  and  his  Cathedral. 

Suddenly  he  thought  that  he  would  go  out.  He  got  his 
hat  and  his  coat  and  went  into  the  rain.  He  crossed  the 
Green  and  let  himself  into  the  Cathedral  by  the  Saint  Mar- 
garet Chapel  door,  as  he  had  so  often  done  before. 

The  Cathedral  was  very  dark,  and  he  stumbled  about, 
knocking  against  pillars  and  hassocks.  He  was  strange  here. 
It  was  as  though  he  didn't  know  the  place.  He  got  into  the 
middle  of  the  nave,  and  positively  he  didn't  know  where  he 
was.  A  faint  green  light  glimmered  in  the  East  end.  There 
were  chairs  in  his  way.    He  stood  still,  listening. 

He  was  lost.  He  would  never  find  his  way  out  again.  His 
Cathedral,  and  he  was  lost!  Figures  were  moving  every- 
where. They  jostled  him  and  said  nothing.  The  air  was 
thick  and  hard  to  breatha  Here  was  the  Black  Bishop's 
Tomb.  He  let  his  fingers  run  along  the  metal  work.  How 
cold  it  was  I  His  hand  touched  the  cold  icy  beard  1  His 
hand  stayed  there.  He  could  not  remove  it.  His  fingers 
stuck. 

He  tried  to  cry  out,  and  he  could  say  nothing.  An  icy 
hand,  gaimtleted,  descended  upon  his  and  held  it.  He  tried 
to  scream.    He  could  not. 


446  THE  CATHEDRAL 

He  shouted.  His  voice  was  a  whisper.  He  sank  upon  his 
knees.  He  fainted,  slipping  to  the  ground  like  a  man  tired 
out 

There,  half  an  hour  later,  Lawrence  found  him. 


CHAPTEK  IV 


THE   LAST    TOURNAMENT 


ON^  the  morning  of  the  Chapter  Meeting  Render  went  in 
through  the  West  door,  intending  to  cross  the  nave  by 
the  Cloisters.  Just  as  he  closed  the  heavy  door  behind  him 
there  sprang  up,  close  to  him,  as  though  from  nowhere  at  all, 
that  horrible  man  Davray.  Horrible  always  to  Render,  but 
more  horrible  now  because  of  the  dreadful  way  in  which  he 
had,  during  the  last  few  months,  gone  tumbling  downhill. 
There  had  been,  until  lately,  a  certain  austerity  and  even 
nobility  in  the  man's  face.  That  was  at  last  completely  swept 
away.  This  morning  he  looked  as  though  he  had  been  sleep- 
ing out  all  night,  his  face  yellow,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  hair 
tangled  and  unkempt,  pieces  of  grass  clinging  to  his  well-worn 
grey  flannel  suit. 

"Good  morning.  Canon  Render,"  he  said. 

"Good  morning,"  Render  replied  severely,  and  tried  to 
pass  on.    But  the  man  stood  in  his  way. 

"I'm  not  going  to  keep  you,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  your 
business  is  this  morning.  I  wouldn't  keep  you  from  it  for  a 
single  moment.  I  know  what  you're  going  to  do.  You're 
going  to  get  rid  of  that  damned  Archdeacon.  Finish  him  for 
once  and  all.  Stamp  on  him  so  that  he  can  never  raise  up 
his  beautiful  head  again.  I  know.  It's  fine  work  you've  been 
doing  ever  since  you  came  here.  Canon  Render.  But  it  isn't 
you  that's  been  doing  it.     It's  the  Cathedral." 

"Please  let  me  pass,"  said  Render.  "I  haven't  any  time 
just  now  to  spare." 

"Ah,  that  hurts  your  pride.     You  like  to  think  it's  you 

447 


448  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


who^s  been  the  mighty  fine  fellow  all  this  time.  Well,  it  isn't 
you  at  all.  It's  the  Cathedral.  The  Cathedral's  jealous,  you 
know — don't  like  its  servants  taking  all  the  credit  to  them- 
selves. Pride's  dangerous,  Canon  Ronder.  In  a  year  or 
two's  time,  when  you're  feeling  pretty  pleased  with  yourself, 
you  just  look  back  on  the  Archdeacon's  history  for  a  moment 
and  consider  it.  It  may  have  a  lesson  for  you.  Good  morn- 
ing, Canon  Ronder.    Pleased  to  have  met  you." 

The  wretched  creature  went  slithering  up  the  aisle,  chuck- 
ling to  himself.  How  miserable  to  be  drunk  at  that  early  hour 
of  the  morning!  Ronder  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though  he 
would  like  to  shake  off  from  them  something  unpleasant  that 
■was  sticking  to  them.  He  was  not  in  a  good  mood  this  morn- 
ing. He  was  assured  of  victory — he  had  no  doubt  about  it  at 
all — and  unquestionably  when  the  affair  was  settled  he  would 
feel  more  tranquil  about  it.  But  ever  since  his  talk  with 
Wistons  he  had  been  unsure  of  the  fellow.  Was  it  altogether 
wise  that  he  should  come  here  ?  His  perfect  content  seemed 
to  be  as  far  away  as  ever.    Was  it  always  to  be  so  ? 

And  then  this  horrible  affair  in  the  High  Street  three  days 
ago,  how  distressing !  The  Archdeacon's  brain  was  going,  and 
that  was  the  very  last  thing  that  Ronder  had  desired.  What 
he  had  originally  seen  was  the  pleasant  picture  of  Brandon  re- 
tiring with  his  wife  and  family  to  a  nice  Rectory  in  the 
diocese  and  ending  his  days — many  years  hence  it  is  to  be 
hoped — in  a  charming  old  garden  with  an  oak-tree  on  the 
lawn  and  pigeons  cooing  in  the  sunny  air. 

But  this !  Oh,  no !  not  this !  Ronder  was  a  practical  man 
of  straight  common-sense,  but  it  did  seem  to  him  as  though 
there  had  been  through  all  the  movement  of  the  last  six 
months  some  spirit  far  more  vindictive  than  himself  had  ever 
been.  He  had  never,  from  the  first  moment  to  the  last,  been 
vindictive.  With  his  hand  on  his  heart  he  could  say  that 
He  did  not  like  the  Cathedral  that  morning,  it  seemed  to  him 
cold,  hostile,  ugly.    The  thick  stone  pillars  were  scornful,  the 


FOTJE 


THE  LAST  STANiD  449 


glass  of  the  East  window  was  dead  and  dull.     A  little  wind 
seemed  to  whistle  in  the  roof  so  far,  so  far  above  his  head. 

He  hurried  on,  his  great-coat  hugged  about  him.  All  that 
he  could  say  was  that  he  did  hope  that  Brandon  would  not  be 
there  this  morning.  His  presence  could  alter  nothing,  the 
voting  could  go  only  one  way.  It  would  be  very  painful  were 
he  there.  Surely  after  the  High  Street  affair  he  would  not 
come. 

Ronder  saw  with  relief  when  he  came  into  the  Chapter 
House  that  Brandon  was  not  present.  They  were  standing 
about  the  room,  looking  out  into  the  Cloisters,  talking  in  little 
groups — the  Dean,  Bentinck-Major,  Ryle,  Foster,  and  Bond, 
the  Clerk,  a  little  apart  from  the  others  as  social  decency  de- 
manded. When  Ronder  entered,  two  things  at  once  were  plain 
— one,  how  greatly  during  these  last  months  he  had  grown  in 
importance  with  all  of  them  and,  secondly,  how  nervous  they 
were  all  feeling.    They  all  turned  towards  him. 

"Ah,  Ronder,"  said  the  Dean,  "that's  right.  I  was  afraid 
lest  something  should  keep  you." 

"1^0 — no — what  a  cold  damp  day !  Autumn  is  really  upon 
us." 

They  discussed  the  weather,  once  and  again  eyeing  the  door 
apprehensively.     Bentinck-Major  took  Ronder  aside: 

"My  wife  and  I  have  been  wondering  whether  you'd  honour 
us  by  dining  with  us  on  the  25th,"  he  said.  "A  cousin  of  my 
wife's.  Lady  Caroline  Holmesby,  is  to  be  staying  with  us  just 
then.  It  would  give  us  such  great  pleasure  if  you  and  Miss 
Ronder  would  join  us  that  evening.  My  wife  is,  of  course, 
writing  to  Miss  Ronder." 

"So  far  as  I  know,  my  aunt  and  I  are  both  free  and  will 
be  delighted  to  come,"  said  Ronder. 

"Delightful !  That  will  be  delightful !  As  a  matter  of  fact 
we  were  thinking  of  having  that  evening  a  little  Shake- 
speare reading.     We  thought  of  King  Lear." 

"Ah!  That's  another  matter,"  said  Ronder,  laughing. 
"I'll  be  delighted  to  listen,  but  as  to  taking  part " 


450  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

"But  you  must!  You  must!"  said  Bentinck-Major,  catch- 
ing hold  of  one  of  the  buttons  on  Ronder's  waistcoat,  a  habit 
that  Bonder  most  especially  disliked.  "More  culture  is  what 
our  town  needs — several  of  us  have  been  thinking  so.  It  is 
really  time,  I  think,  to  start  a  little  Shakespeare  reading 
amongst  ourselves — strictly  amongst  ourselves,  of  course. 
The  trouble  with  Shakespeare  is  that  he  is  so  often  a  little — 
a  little  bold,  for  mixed  reading — and  that  restricts  us.  Never- 
theless, we  hope.  .  .  .  I  do  trust  that  you  will  join  us, 
Canon  Render." 

"I  make  no  promises,"  said  Render.  "If  you  knew  how 
badly  I  read,  you'd  hesitate  before  asking  me." 

"We  are  past  our  time,"  said  the  Dean,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "We  are  all  here,  I  think,  but  Brandon  and  Witheram. 
Witheram  is  away  at  Drymouth.  He  has  written  to  me. 
How  long  we  should  wait " 

"I  can  hardly  believe,"  said  Ryle  nervously,  "that  Arch- 
deacon Brandon  will  be  present.  He  is  extremely  unwell. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  three  nights  ago  he 
was  found  by  Lawrence  the  Verger  here  in  the  Cathedral  in 
a  fainting  fit.    He  is  very  unwell,  I*m  afraid." 

The  whole  group  was  immensely  interested.  They  had 
heard.  .  .  .  Fainting  ?  Here  in  the  Cathedral  ?  Yes,  by 
the  Bishop's  Tomb.  He  was  better  yesterday,  but  it  is  hardly 
likely  that  he  will  come  this  morning. 

"Poor  man  I"  said  the  Dean,  gently  distressed.  "I  heard 
something.  .  .  .  That  was  the  result,  I'm  afraid,  of  his 
fracas  that  morning  in  the  High  Street;  he  must  be  most 
seriously  unwell." 

"Poor  man,  poor  man  I"  was  echoed  by  everybody ;  it  was 
evident  also  that  general  relief  was  felt.  He  could  not  now 
be  expected  to  be  present. 

The  door  opened,  and  ho  came  in.  He  came  hurriedly,  a 
number  of  papers  in  one  hand,  wearing  just  the  old  anxious 
look  of  important  care  that  they  knew  so  well.  And  yet  how 
changed  he  was  I    Instead  of  moving  at  once  to  his  place  at 


FOUK  THE  LAST  STAND  451 

the  long  table  he  hesitated,  looked  at  Bentinck-Major,  at 
Foster,  then  at  Bond,  half-puzzled,  as  though  he  had  never 
seen  them  before. 

"I  must  apologise,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "for  being  late. 
My  watch,  I'm  afraid,  was  slow." 

The  Dean  then  showed  quite  unexpected  qualities. 

"Will  you  sit  here  on  my  right.  Archdeacon  ?"  he  said  in  a 
firm  and  almost  casual  voice.  "We  are  a  little  late,  I  fear, 
but  no  matter — no  matter.  We  are  all  present,  I  think,  save 
Archdeacon  Witheram,  who  is  at  Drymouth,  and  from  w^hom 
I  have  received  a  letter."  They  all  found  their  places.  Ron- 
der  was  as  usual  exactly  opposite  to  Brandon.  Foster  slouched 
into  his  seat  with  his  customary  air  of  absentmindedness. 
Ryle  tried  not  to  look  at  Brandon,  but  his  eyes  were  fasci- 
nated and  seemed  to  swim  in  their  watery  fashion  like  fish  fas- 
cinated by  a  bait. 

"Shall  we  open  with  a  prayer,"  said  the  Dean,  "and  ask 
God's  blessing  on  this  morning's  work  ?" 

They  prayed  with  bent  heads.  Brandon's  head  was  bent 
longer  than  the  others. 

When  he  looked  up  he  stared  about  him  as  though  com- 
pletely bewildered. 

"As  you  all  know,"  the  Dean  said  in  his  softly  urgent 
voice,  as  though  he  were  pressing  them  to  give  him  flowers  foi 
his  collection,  "our  meeting  this  morning  is  of  the  first 
urgency.  I  will,  with  your  approval,  postpone  general  busi- 
ness until  the  more  ordinary  meeting  of  next  week.  That  is 
if  no  one  has  any  objection  to  such  a  course?" 

No  one  had  any  objections. 

"Very  well,  then.  As  you  know,  our  business  this  morn- 
ing is  to  appoint  a  successor  to  poor  Morrison  at  Pybus  St. 
Anthony.  Now  in  ordinary  cases,  such  an  appointment  is 
not  of  the  first  importance,  but  in  the  matter  of  Pybus,  as  you 
all  know,  there  is  a  difference.  Whether  rightly  or  wrongly, 
it  has  been  a  tradition  in  the  Diocese  that  the  Pybus  living 
should  be  given  only  to  exceptional  men.     It  has  been  fortu- 


452  THE  CATHEDRAL  BOOK 

nate  in  having  a  succession  of  exceptional  men  in  its  service--- 
men  who,  for  the  most  part,  have  come  to  great  position  in  the 
Church  afterwards.  I  want  you  to  remember  that,  gentle- 
men, when  you  are  making  your  decision  this  morning.  At 
the  same  time  you  must  remember  that  it  has  been  largely  tra- 
dition that  has  given  this  importance  to  Pybus,  and  that  the 
living  has  been  vacant  already  too  long." 

He  paused.  Then  he  picked  up  a  piece  of  paper  in  front 
of  him. 

"There  have  been  several  meetings  with  regard  to  this 
li\'ing  already,"  he  said,  "and  certain  names  have  been  very 
thoroughly  discussed  among  us.  I  think  we  were  last  week 
agreed  that  two  names  stood  out  from  the  others.  If  to-day 
we  cannot  agree  on  one  of  those  two  names,  we  must  then 
consider  a  third.  That  will  not,  I  hope,  be  necessary.  The 
two  names  most  favourably  considered  by  us  are  those  of  the 
Kev.  Rex  Forsyth,  Chaplain  to  Bishop  Clematis,  and  thr 
Hev.  Ambrose  Wistons  of  St.  Edward's  Hawston.  The  first 
of  these  two  gentlemen  is  known  to  all  of  us  personally,  the 
second  we  know  chiefly  through  his  writings.  We  will  first, 
I  think,  consider  !Mr.  Wistons.  You,  Canon  Foster,  are,  I 
know,  a  personal  friend  of  his,  and  can  tell  us  why,  in  your 
opinion,  his  would  be  a  suitable  appointment." 

"It  depends  on  what  you  want,"  said  Foster,  frowning 
around  upon  every  one  present ;  and  then  suddenly  selecting 
little  Bond  as  apparently  his  most  dangerous  enemy  and 
scowling  at  him  with  great  hostility,  "if  you  want  to  let  the 
religious  life  of  this  place,  nearly  dead  already,  pass  right 
away,  choose  a  man  like  Fors>i;h.  But  I  don't  wish  to  be  con- 
tentious ;  there's  been  contention  enough  in  this  place  during 
these  last  months,  and  I'm  sick  and  ashamed  of  the  share  I've 
had  in  it.  I  won't  say  more  than  this — that  if  you  want  an 
honest.  God-fearing  man  here,  who  lives  only  for  God  and  ia 
in  his  most  secret  chamber  as  he  is  before  men,  then  Wistons 
is  your  man.  I  understand  that  some  of  you  are  afraid  of  his 
books.    There*ll  be  worse  books  than  his  you'll  have  to  face 


FouK  THE  LAST  STA:N'D  453 

before  you're  much  older.  That  I  can  tell  you!  I  said  to 
myself  before  I  came  here  that  I  wouldn't  speak  this  morn- 
ing. I  should  not  have  said  even  what  I  have,  because  I  know 
that  in  this  last  year  I  have  grievously  sinned,  fighting 
against  God  when  I  thought  that  I  was  fighting  for  Him. 
The  weapons  are  taken  out  of  my  hands.  I  believe  that 
Wistons  is  the  man  for  this  place  and  for  the  religious  life 
here.  I  believe  that  you  will  none  of  you  regret  it  if  you 
bring  him  to  this  appointment.     I  can  say  nothing  more." 

What  had  happened  to  Foster?  They  had,  one  and  all, 
expected  a  fighting  speech.  The  discomfort  and  uneasinessr 
that  was  already  in  the  room  was  now  greatly  increased. 

The  Dean  asked  Render  to  say  something.  Render  leaned 
forward,  pushing  his  spectacles  back  with  his  fingers.  He 
leaned  forward  that  he  might  not  see  Brandon's  face. 

By  chance  he  had  not  seen  Brandon  for  more  than  a  fort- 
night. He  was  horrified  and  frightened  by  the  change.  The 
grey-white  face,  the  restless,  beseeching,  bewildered  eyes  be- 
longing apparently  to  some  one  else,  to  whom  they  were 
searching  to  return,  the  long  white  fingers  ceaselessly  moving 
among  the  papers  and  tapping  the  table,  were  those  of  a 
stranger,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  men  in  that  room  it  was  he 
who  had  produced  him.  Yes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  how  many 
others  in  that  town  ?  You  might  say  that  had  Brandon  been 
a  man  of  real  spiritual  and  moral  strength,  not  Ronder,  not 
even  God  Himself,  could  have  brought  Brandon  to  this.  But 
was  that  so  ?  Which  of  us  knows  until  he  is  tried  ?  His  wife, 
his  son,  his  body,  all  had  failed  him.  And  now  this  too. 
.  .  .  And  if  Ronder  had  not  come  to  that  town  would  it 
have  been  so  ?  Had  it  not  been  a  duel  between  them  from  the 
moment  that  Ronder  first  set  his  foot  in  that  place  ?  And  had 
not  Ronder  deliberately  willed  it  so  ?  What  had  Ronder  said 
to  Brandon's  son  and  to  the  woman  who  would  ruin  Bran- 
don's wife? 

All  this  passed  in  the  flash  of  a  dfeam  through  Render's 
brain,  perhaps  never  entirely  to  leave  him  again.     In  that 


454  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


long  duel  there  had  been  perhaps  more  than  one  defeat.  He 
knew  that  they  were  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  but  the 
thoughts  would  not  come.  Wistons  ?  Forsyth  ?  .  .  . 
Forsyth?  Wistons?  Who  were  they?  What  had  they  to 
do  with  this  personal  relation  of  his  with  the  man  opposite  ? 

He  flushed.  He  must  say  something.  He  began  to  speak, 
and  soon  his  brain,  so  beautifully  ordered,  began  to  reel  out 
the  words  in  soft  and  steady  sequence.  But  his  soul  watched 
Brandon's  soul. 

"My  friend,  Canon  Foster,  knows  Mr.  Wistons  so  much 
better  than  I  do,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  absurd  for  me  to  try 
and  tell  you  what  he  should  tell  you. 

"I  do  regard  him  as  the  right  man  for  this  place,  because 
I  think  our  Cathedral,  that  we  all  so  deeply  love,  is  waiting 
for  just  such  a  man.  Against  his  character  no  one,  I  sup- 
pose, has  anything  to  say.  He  is  known  before  all  the  world 
as  a  God-fearing  Christian.  He  is  no  youth ;  he  has  had 
much  experience;  he  is,  every  one  witnesses,  lovable  and  of 
strong  personal  charm.  It  is  not  his  character,  but  his  ideas, 
that  people  have  criticised.  He  is  a  modernist,  of  course,  a 
man  of  an  enquiring,  penetrating  mind,  who  must  himself 
be  satisfied  of  the  truth  for  which  he  is  searcliiug.  Can  that 
do  us  here  any  harm  ?  I  believe  not.  I  think  that  some  of  us, 
if  I  may  say  so,  are  too  easily  frightened  of  the  modern  spirit 
of  enquiry.  I  believe  that  we  Churchmen  should  step  for- 
ward ready  to  face  any  challenge,  whether  of  scientists,  psy- 
chologists or  any  one  else — I  think  that  before  long,  whether 
we  like  it  or  no,  wo  shall  have  to  do  so.  Mr.  Wistons  is,  I 
believe,  just  the  man  to  help  us  in  such  a  crisis.  His  opinions 
are  not  precisely  the  same  as  those  of  some  of  us  in  this  dio- 
cese, and  I've  no  doubt  that  if  he  came  here  there  would  bo 
some  disputes  from  time  to  time,  but  I  believe  those  same  dis- 
putes would  do  us  a  world  of  good.  God  did  not  mean  us  to 
sit  down  twiddling  our  thumbs  and  never  using  our  brains. 
He  gave  us  our  intelligences,  and  therefore  I  presume  that  He 
meant  us  to  make  some  use  of  them. 


FOUR  THE  LAST  STAi^TD  456 

"In  these  matters  Mr.  Wistons  is  exactly  what  we  want 
here.  He  is  a  much-travelled  man,  widely  experienced  in 
affairs,  excellent  at  business.  No  one  who  has  ever  met  him 
would  deny  his  sweetness  and  personal  charm.  I  think  my- 
self that  we  are  very  fortunate  to  have  a  chance  of  seeing  him 
here " 

Ronder  ceased.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  been  beating  thin 
air  with  weak  ineffective  hands.  They  had,  none  of  them, 
been  listening  to  him  or  thinking  of  him;  they  had  not  even 
been  thinking  of  Wistons.  Their  minds  had  been  absorbed, 
held,  dominated  by  the  tall  broad  figure  who  sat  in  their 
midst,  but  was  not  one  of  them. 

Brandon,  in  fact,  began  to  speak  almost  before  Render 
had  finished.  He  did  not  look  up,  but  stared  at  his  long 
nervous  fingers.  He  spoke  at  first  almost  in  a  whisper,  so 
that  they  did  not  catch  the  first  few  words.  ".  .  .  Horri- 
fied ..."  they  heard  him  say.  "Horrified.  ...  So 
calmly.    .    .    .   These  present.    .    .    . 

"Cannot  understand.  ..."  Then  his  words  were 
clearer.    He  looked  up,  staring  across  at  Ronder. 

"Horrified  at  this  eager  acceptance  of  a  man  who  is  a 
declared  atheist  before  God."  Then  suddenly  he  flung  his 
head  back  in  his  old  challenging  way  and,  looking  round  upon 
them  all,  went  on,  his  voice  now  clear,  although  weak  and 
sometimes  faltering : 

"Gentlemen,  this  is  perhaps  my  last  appearance  at  these 
Chapter  Meetings.  I  have  not  been  very  well  of  late  and,  as 
you  all  know,  I  have  had  trouble.  You  will  forgive  me  if  I 
do  not,  this  morning,  express  myself  so  clearly  or  carefully 
as  I  should  like. 

"But  the  first  thing  that  I  wish  to  say  is  that  when  you 
are  deciding  this  question  this  morning  you  should  do  your 
best,  before  God,  to  put  my  own  personality  out  of  your 
minds.  I  have  learnt  many  things,  under  God's  hand,  in  the 
last  six  months.  He  has  shown  me  some  weaknesses  and 
failings,  and  I  know  now  that,  because  of  those  weaknesses, 


456  THE  CATHEDRAL 


BOOK 


there  are  some  in  this  town  who  would  act  against  any- 
thing that  I  proposed,  simply  because  they  would  wish  me 
to  be  defeated.    I  do  implore  you  this  morning  not  to  think  of 

me,  but  to  think  only  of  what  will  be  best — best — best " 

He  looked  around  him  for  a  moment  bewildered,  frowning  in 
puzzled  fashion  at  Ronder,  then  continued  again,  *'l)est  for 
Grod  and  the  work  of  His  Church. 

"I'm  not  very  well,  gentlemen ;  my  thoughts  are  not  coming 
very  clearly  this  morning,  and  that  is  sad,  because  I've 
looked  forward  to  this  morning  for  months  past,  vrishing  to 
fight  my  very  best.  ..."  His  voice  changed.  "Yes, 
fight !"  he  cried.  "There  should  be  no  fight  necessary  in  such 
a  matter.    But  what  has  happened  to  us  all  in  the  last  year  ? 

"A  year  ago  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  would  have  con- 
sidered such  an  appointment  as  I  am  now  disputing.  Have 
you  read  this  man's  books  ?  Have  you  read  in  the  papers  his 
acknowledged  utterances?  Do  you  know  that  he  questions 
the  Divinity  of  Christ  Himself " 

"No,  Archdeacon,"  Foster  broke  in,  "that  is  not  true.  You 
can  have  no  evidence  of  that." 

Brandon  seemed  to  be  entirely  bewildered  by  the  interrup- 
tion. He  looked  at  Foster,  opened  his  mouth  as  though  he 
would  speak,  then  suddenly  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"If  you  will  give  me  time,"  he  said.  "Give  me  time.  I 
will  prove  everything,  I  will  indeed.  I  beg  you,"  he  said, 
suddenly  turning  to  the  Dean,  "that  you  will  have  this 
appointment  postponed  for  a  month.  It  is  so  serious  a  matter 
that  to  decide  hastily " 

"Not  hastily,"  said  the  Dean  very  gently.  "Morrison  died 
some  months  ago,  and  I'm  afraid  it  is  imperative  that  we 
should  fill  the  vacancy  this  morning." 

"Then  consider  what  you  do,"  Brandon  cried,  now  half- 
rising  from  his  chair.  "This  man  is  breaking  in  upon  the 
cherished  beliefs  of  our  Church.  Give  him  a  little  and  he 
will  take  everything.  We  must  all  stand  firm  upon  the  true 
and  Christian  ground  that  the  Church  has  given  us,  or  where 


FOUR 


THE  LAST  STAND  457 


shall  we  be  ?  This  man  may  be  good  and  devout,  but  he  does 
not  believe  what  we  believe.  Our  Church — that  we  love — 
that  we  love "   He  broke  off  again. 

"You  are  against  me.  Every  man's  hand  now  is  against 
m^.  Nevertheless  what  I  say  is  right  and  true.  What  am  I  ? 
What  are  you,  any  of  you  here  in  this  room,  beside  God's 
truth  ?  I  have  seen  God,  I  have  walked  with  God,  I  shall  walk 
with  Him  again.  He  will  lead  me  out  of  these  sore  distresses 
and  take  me  into  green  pastures " 

He  flushed.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen.  I  am  taking 
your  time.  I  must  say  something  for  Mr.  Forsyth.  He  is 
young;  he  knows  this  place  and  loves  it;  he  cares  for  and 
will  preserve  its  most  ancient  traditions.  .  .  . 

"He  cares  for  the  things  for  which  we  should  care.  I  do 
commend  him  to  your  attention " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  rain  that  had  begun  a  thick 
drizzle  dripped  on  the  panes.  The  room  was  so  dark  that  the- 
Dean  asked  Bond  to  light  the  gas.  They  all  waited  while  this 
was  being  done.    At  last  the  Dean  spoke : 

"We  are  all  very  grateful  to  you.  Archdeacon,  for  helping 
us  as  you  have  done.  I  think,  gentlemen,  that  unless  there 
is  some  other  name  definitely  to  be  proposed  we  had  better 
now  vote  on  these  two  names. 

"Is  there  any  further  name  suggested  ?" 

No  one  spoke. 

"Very  well,  then.  I  think  this  morning,  contrary  to  our 
usual  custom,  we  will  record  our  votes  on  paper.  I  have 
Archdeacon  Witheram's  letter  here  advising  me  of  his  wishes 
in  this  matter." 

Paper  and  pens  were  before  every  one.  The  votes  were 
recorded  and  sent  up  to  the  Dean.  He  opened  the  little 
pieces  of  paper  slowly. 

At  last  he  said : 

"One  vote  has  been  recorded  in  favour  of  Mr.  Eorsyth,  the 
rest  for  Mr.  Wistons.  Mr.  Wistons  is  therefore  appointed  to 
the  living  of  Pybus  St.  Anthony." 


458  THE  CATHEDRAL  book 

Brandon  was  on  his  feet.  His  body  trembled  like  a  tree 
tottering.    He  flung  out  his  hands. 

"No.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Stop  one  moment.  You  must.  You 
— all  of  you 

"Mr.  Dean — all  of  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  God,  help  me  now !  .  .  . 
You  have  been  influenced  by  your  feelings  about  myself.  For- 
get me,  turn  me  away,  send  me  from  the  town,  anything,  any- 
thing. ...  I  beseech  you  to  think  only  of  the  good  of  the 
Cathedral  in  this  affair.  If  you  admit  this  man  it  is  the 
banning  of  the  end.  Slowly  it  will  all  be  undermined. 
Belief  in  Christ,  belief  in  God  Himself.  .  .  .  Think  of  the 
future  and  your  responsibility  to  the  unborn  children  when 
they  come  to  you  and  say:  'Where  is  our  faith?  Why  did 
you  take  it  from  us?  Give  it  back  to  us!'  Oh,  stop  for  a 
moment!  Postpone  this  for  only  a  little  while.  Don't  do 
this  thing !  .  .  .  Gentlemen  I" 

They  could  see  that  he  was  ill.  His  body  swayed  as  though 
it  were  beyond  his  control.  His  hands  were  waving,  turning, 
beseeching.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  tears  were  running  down  his  cheeks. 

"Not  this  shame !"  he  cried.  "Not  this  shame ! — kill  me — 
but  save  the  Cathedral !" 

They  were  on  their  feet.  Foster  and  Ryle  had  come  round 
to  him.  "Archdeacon,  sit  down."  "You're  ill."  "Rest  a 
moment."  With  a  great  heave  of  his  shoulders  he  flung  them 
off,  a  chair  falling  to  the  ground  with  the  movement. 

He  saw  Bonder. 

"You !  .  .  .  my  enemy.  Are  you  satisfied  now  ?"  ho  whis- 
pered. He  held  out  his  quivering  hand.  "Take  my  hand. 
You've  done  your  worst." 

He  turned  round  as  though  he  would  go  from  the  room. 
Stumbling,  he  caught  Foster  by  the  shoulder  as  though  he 
would  save  himself.  He  bent  forward,  staring  into  Foster's 
face. 

"God  is  love,  though,"  he  said.  "You  betray  Him  again 
and  again,  but  He  comes  back." 


FOUE  THE  LAST  STAJSTD  459 

He  gripped  Foster'a  shoulder  more  tightly.  "Don't  do 
this  thing,  man,"  he  said.  "Don't  do  it.  Because  Render's 
beaten  me  is  no  reason  for  you  to  betray  your  God.  .  .  .  Give 
me  a  chair.    I'm  ill." 

He  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"This  .  .  .  Death,"  he  whispered.  Then,  looking  up  again, 
at  Foster,  "My  heart.    That  fails  me  too." 

And,  bowing  his  head,  he  died. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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